Death Takes a Bow
by smuffly
Summary: It's the murder that Shakespeare never wrote. An actress is murdered on stage - but what happens when the team investigates? Adam/OC, a little Mac/Stella and, of course, a whole lot of suspense.
1. Chapter 1

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**A/N: This story is set in the gap between Seasons 6 and 7.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own CSI NY, or Adam (except on DVD). Nor do I own 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' (except for what is now a very well-thumbed copy).**

**Thanks to lily moonlight for the encouragement that set me off on this adventure...**

**All quotes, unless otherwise stated, are taken from the play.**

**And if you've never read or seen it, don't worry - neither has Adam.**

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**Chapter One**

_**'Then how can it be said I am alone**_

_**When all the world is here to look on me?'**_

The more Adam Ross learned about the darker side of fame, the less he cared for it. Much safer to be anonymous, he reminded himself, whenever a late night session of Guitar Hero filled him with dreams of a different path. The media was a ravenous beast, cracking its limbs and swelling with each new innovation. News travelled far too quickly these days, and a celebrity's life - or death - was never their own once they had chosen to enter the public arena. Bright lights could be far too revealing, and cruelty lurked in the shadows, waiting to strike.

Today was a perfect example.

Inside the building, a woman had been murdered.

Outside, the newshounds gathered, baying for scraps of information like wolves who have caught the scent of blood.

As the Avalanche drew to a full stop across the street from the Prestige Theatre, Adam gazed out at the crowd with more than a little trepidation. _Talk about running the gauntlet..._ Following Stella's confident lead, he opened the door on the opposite side and clambered out. Cold air hit him like a slap to the face, and he gasped in shock.

"Adam. This way."

Whirling around in search of Mac, he lost control of his case for a moment. One sharp corner rammed into the legs of a nearby journalist. "Hey!" growled the man. His eyes narrowed, full of intent, and his fingers gathered into a threatening fist...

"Oops - my bad! I'm sorry, okay?" Startled, Adam skipped away in haste. Mac's dark silhouette was fast disappearing through the crowd, with Stella's bright curls leading the charge. "Wait for me," cried the lab tech gamely, pushing after them. It was a battle, but he persevered, afraid of losing his colleagues altogether. Unnerved by the angry reporter, he resisted the temptation to use his case as a weapon. Instead, Adam lowered his head and fought with his elbows, putting his faith in stubbornness, and plain dumb luck.

"Try to stay with us," said his boss, as Adam popped up beside him at the Stage Door, looking breathless and slightly dishevelled. "Should be a little calmer through here," Mac added, kindly.

"O-okay. Thanks..."

Already, Stella had flashed her badge and vanished through the open doorway. Her two colleagues followed, and a heavy slab of a man turned the key behind them. "Can't be too careful," he told them gruffly, peering through eyes so deeply set, they reminded the hungry Adam of holes in a donut. "'S a crime scene, innit?"

"Thank you," said Mac politely. "Please don't let anyone out until you've cleared it with me or Detective Flack, Mr..?"

"Ambrose," the doorman said, full of poorly-concealed delight at the power he had just been granted.

Pressing on, Adam felt the difference in atmosphere straight away. Outside had been chaos. Inside, there were just as many people, but they stood in silent huddles, lining the narrow corridors, their faces a troubled mixture of fear and guilty fascination. Adam felt their eyes upon him as he passed. It was not a comfortable sensation. Glancing across at his boss, he marvelled at Mac's composure.

"Doesn't it bother you?" he whispered. "The crowd, I mean?"

"Why would it?" Mac stared back at him, surprised.

"I'm not sure. It just seems so... ghoulish, somehow. You know? Murder isn't entertainment. Well, no, sometimes it is, I guess... But that's just make-believe. This is someone's life. And they're watching like the play's still going on..."

"You're very philosophical today." Mac's grin was tight but his tone was full of humour as he turned away from Adam.

Was that a compliment? The lab tech couldn't decide. With a puzzled frown, he tagged along at Mac's heels, lost in his thoughts as usual. Trailing his boss up a long flight of well-worn steps, Adam paused at the top to recover his breath, bending as he tried to ease a painful stitch. _Need to get fitter,_ he scolded himself. _Too many hours in a big glass box and not enough time outdoors..._ Fully recovered at last, Adam straightened up. With a sudden lurch of panic, he found himself alone in a sea of strangers. Mac and Stella had disappeared completely. _Typical,_ he sighed. _You idiot..._

"Left," said a quiet voice.

She stood by herself in a dimly-lit corner. Her brown eyes were wide and friendly - a welcome change.

"Thank you," he gasped.

"No problem. It's a maze in here. I get lost all the time."

Warmed by her unexpected act of kindness, Adam flashed the woman a bright smile and hurried off down the left-hand passageway in search of his friends. She watched him go, her hands thrust deep in her pockets.

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Stepping onto the stage from the wings, Stella felt an unexpected thrill of excitement.

_Funny how memory can catch you out like that,_ she thought. For a moment, she could almost believe that she was young again, with her whole dance troupe behind her, shivering and trying hard not to make each other giggle as they waited to burst out and seize their moment of glory. But that was many years ago, and the image faded as suddenly as it had appeared. There was no troupe any more, and no audience, full of anticipation. Only Mac was behind her now, grim of face as he studied the crime scene.

Shading her eyes against the lights, Stella picked out signs of the usual dress rehearsal chaos. Scenery, propped up against the front row of seats. Dog-eared scripts lying here and there, covered in scribbles and fluorescent marker. Costumes piled in a corner, begging for some last-minute alterations. The only thing that was missing was the bustle, and the noise. One split second in time had been frozen by a violent act. The performers and the crew milled around in frightened groups, not knowing what to do, or how they were expected to behave. Uniformed officers were everywhere, adding a further sense of 'wrongness' to the scene. Hardened as she was to death these days, Stella felt sad. Another illusion shattered.

With a sigh, she turned away from the stalls and followed Mac's gaze - only to be met by a most improbable sight.

Detective Don Flack.

Standing in the midst of what could only be described as a fairy bower, and looking more out of place than a quarterback at the ballet. Below him, in the auditorium, heavily made-up actors in flyaway costumes (some with wings) were vying for his attention, desperate to find out what was going on - and when their practice could be resumed. Don's face wore an expression that was priceless; part dismay and part frustration.

Stella's spirits lifted - she couldn't help herself - and she shared a look of amusement with Mac.

"Better call Ripleys," he quipped, as he strode forward to meet the detective, slipping under the yellow tape that hung from a series of twisted branches. "No one's ever going to believe it otherwise."

"Took you long enough," said Don, looking highly relieved. "What?" he added, noticing Mac's raised eyebrows.

"Nice crime scene." Mac stared around at the artful trees, the moonlit flowers... and the fairies.

"Midsummer Night's Dream," Don explained, rather too casually. "William Shakespeare."

"I know that."

"Of course you do." With a shrug, Don led them both to the heart of the picturesque grotto. There, they discovered something that drove their smiles away in a heartbeat.

Titania, the Fairy Queen, lay spread on a mound of verdant green, her gown in elegant folds, her red hair like petals around her face.

Her eyes were swollen, and bloodshot.

Her cheeks were pale and drawn in a terrible rictus of death.

Nearby, on the other side of the tape, a skinny young man with pointed ears knelt and wept as though his heart would break.

"'Proud Titania'," Stella quoted, looking down at the woman with sorrow.

"Otherwise known as the actress, Rowena May," said Detective Flack. "She was here as a favour. Four performances, starting tomorrow, all for charity." He studied his notes. "Shining Stars. One of those 'make a wish' deals, where sick kids get to go to Disneyland, or meet their favourite pop star. Turns out, Rowena was high on their list of patrons. Guess she'll be missed." He cast an uncomfortable glance behind him at the wailing sprite. "By many..."

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Several wrong turns later, Adam sidled onto the stage, pausing in shock as he realised exactly where he was. His blue eyes darted around until, with great relief, he saw three familiar faces staring back at him. Waving, he scuttled across to join them. On the way over, his interest was piqued by a quartet of tiny fairies, who sat cross-legged on the carpet below and whispered together like children sharing secrets. Towering over them was a curious figure, dressed in breeches and a shirt - topped off with the head of a donkey.

"What kind of play _is_ this?" Adam asked breathlessly, peering back over his shoulder as he entered the taped-off grotto. "Some kind of fantasy, right? Elves and Goblins, like Lord of the Rings?"

"It's culture, Adam," Stella told him, smiling. "William Shakespeare. Maybe you've heard of him?"

Flushing, the lab tech tried to recover his dignity. "Oh... yes, of course." He glanced at Don, who was biting his lip in a desperate struggle to keep from laughing out loud. "I know about culture, Stella... and not just the kind that's grown in a lab," he added, catching the evil glint in her eye. "I just... the donkey-guy caught me off guard, that's all."

"Bottom," said Don, with admirable gravity.

They turned and stared at him, speechless.

"Excuse me?" said Adam, finally.

"The man with the ass's head. Bottom. That's his name."

Adam snorted. "He's called Bottom and he's got the head of an ass? That's not culture - that's comedy."

Mac sighed. "Adam. Focus. This is neither the time nor the place. Don't make me wish that I'd left you behind in the lab..."

Full of shame, the younger man winced. His lips pressed together and he lowered his head. Don felt guilty, and tried to distract them all with more information.

"Rowena's husband is in the play too. His name's Peter Reynolds, and he's playing Oberon. King of the Fairies," he whispered, for Adam's benefit. The lab tech gave a wobbly smile.

"Then we need to talk to him," Mac decided. "Who found the body?"

"That would be Donkey-guy," said Don. "Good luck with him. He's an ass..."

As Mac shook his head in despair, Adam shot the detective a look of pure gratitude.

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**A/N: I'll be updating this story every two or three days at first. Hope you like it! Please review...**


	2. Chapter 2

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Two**

_**"Asleep, my love?**_

_**What, dead, my dove?"**_

"Hey. You feelin' okay?"

"Never better. Why?" Mac glared across at Don as they walked away from the grotto.

"Well - you're not what I would call your usual peppy self."

"I'm tired, Don."

"Aubrey been keeping you up late?" Don's smirk failed to hide the honest concern in his eyes.

"We're just friends, Don. You know that. Besides, we haven't seen that much of each other, these past few weeks. Busy lives. You know how it goes." Mac moved ahead.

_Butt out. I get it,_ thought Don with a sigh.

They made their way back through the wings and then took a short cut down to the auditorium. Bottom had finally managed to rid himself of the fairies that cramped his style. He leaned against the rail of the orchestra pit, arms folded, watching the scene with an air of patronising calm. "I wondered when you would get to me," he commented, as the two men approached him.

Don resisted the urge to talk to the donkey's gentle face instead. A flap was open in the creature's neck, revealing a far less amiable character, sharp-eyed and jowly. The effect was grotesque, as though the actor had been swallowed whole and was trying to cut himself free, from the inside out. "Walter Case. My officer tells me you're the one who found the body?"

"Part of the scene, dear boy. Rowena missed her cue. I wanted to find out why." He shuddered, an overblown gesture calculated to inspire pity. Mac watched him silently. Don chose nonchalance.

"Did you touch her?"

"Touch her? Good heavens, no! Why would I do a thing like that? It makes my blood run cold just to think of it. 'Murder most foul'..."

"Hamlet," said Mac, without batting an eyelid.

Bottom gave an imperceptible start. _That's right_, thought Don. _We're not the dumb cops you took us for._

"When did you last see Rowena alive?" he pressed.

"When she lay down on her 'flowery bed'. Act Two, Scene Two. The play went on around her, but no one went near... Not unless you count... Oh, Lord!" Bottom's hand flew up to his mouth and his eyes grew wide. "Oberon. Rowena's husband, I mean. They were alone together when he enchanted her. Made quite a meal of it, as I recall. Drew his speech out - what is it with these movie actors and their dramatic pauses? Anyway, he's the only one who could have done it..."

"Don't you like 'movie actors'?" Mac said.

Bottom looked sly.

"I'm sure they're very good at what they do. But Shakespeare... that's a whole different skill set. _Some_ of us trained for years... though I'm not one to cast aspersions," he added hastily, holding up his hands in denial as he watched Don's pen fly across the page of his little notebook. "Rowena's a wonderful person. _Was._ A wonderful person. No one could ever wish her any harm."

"Especially you," grinned Don, enjoying the man's discomfort.

"How well did you know her?" Mac pressed. "Ever act with her before?"

"Do I look like one of those Hollywood types?" Bottom sighed. "I'm an _actor_, you know - flesh and blood, not a 'face' on a screen. Our paths never crossed before now. Besides, I'm hardly her social type. You should probably talk to the lovers. 'Bright young things', the lot of them." Smiling in scorn at Don's raised eyebrow, he clarified. "Helena. Demetrius. Hermia and..."

"Lysander. Thank you, yes." Don looked smug as he turned away. "Please don't leave, Mr. Bottom..."

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Adam crouched beside his kit. He knew that he should be working, but his eyes kept stealing back to Rowena's body. She looked ethereal, and so sad - a far cry from the vibrant star whose sweet gaze filled his heart with warmth whenever he saw it...

"You liked her," said Stella, watching him.

"She was okay." He shrugged, embarrassed at being caught out. _Like a schoolboy with a crush._ "Her films were good. Lots of humour, and action. Not too fluffy."

"Strange to find her in something like this. Shakespeare isn't everyone's cup of tea." Stella knelt in a patch of hand-made flowers, running her gloved hand through their gossamer petals in search of trace. The image was quirky, yet pleasing. It made Adam smile.

"That's better," Stella told him fondly. "Don't let things get to you so much, Adam. You need to be hard in this business."

"You're not."

"Oh!" She laughed; a brittle and unexpected sound. "Thank you for that - I think. Other people might disagree with you."

Adam frowned. "Are you alright, Stella?"

"Never better," she lied. "Now get to work, before Mac comes back and yells at me for leading you astray."

This time, he giggled. "Grouchy today, isn't he? Maybe he got out of bed on the wrong side, or something." Stella's eyes narrowed in urgent warning. "Oops... I mean... Hey, boss. What did the Donkey have to say?"

"He thinks Rowena's husband did it." Mac raked his gaze across the crowded stalls.

"Over there," said Adam helpfully. "See? I have culture," he added, full of pride. "Peter Reynolds. He was _awesome_ in 'Slavemaster: Rise of the Androids'..."

Stella dipped her head, hiding her grin behind a sloping mass of curls.

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The 'awesome' Peter Reynolds was dressed in a moss-green robe, shot through with golden thread. A wig made of tumbling, leaf-bound dreadlocks hung down his back. One arm was hooked protectively around the shoulders of the unhappy sprite. Both men were pale and on edge.

"I'm sorry for your loss," Mac offered, looking into the Fairy King's painted face and liking what he saw there.

"Thank you." Reynolds nodded gravely. "This is Rowena's ward, Henry. He's playing Puck."

The young man lifted up his chin and Mac was confronted by a pair of pale blue eyes, washed in tears and clearer than spring-water. Smiling weakly, Henry opened his mouth - but words were beyond him. Reynolds hugged him tighter in sympathy. "Does it have to be now?" he asked.

"Just a few questions," Don said, fighting his natural cynicism as he watched the honest display of affection. "Won't take long."

"Very well." Reynolds stared at them thoughtfully. "Let me see if I can get this right." He tilted his head, first one way, then the other. "'Mr. Reynolds - did you love your wife?' Why yes, Detective, with all my heart. 'Was she alive when you saw her last?' Of course. She winked at me, in fact, as I said my lines. Very off-putting. 'Do you know anyone else who would wish her harm?' Not at all. My wife was a good woman. Everyone loved her." Fixing his gaze upon Mac, the actor shrugged. "So. How did I do?"

"Not too bad," the detective replied. "But this isn't a game, Mr. Reynolds."

"You think I don't know that?" Tensing, the actor glanced down at Henry, as though for reassurance. "This whole thing - it's tearing me apart. Forgive me if I control myself the only way that I know how. What use would I be to you, and to her, if I let out the monster that lurks within? Do you understand, Detective?"

"More than you know," Mac said quietly.

Watching his friend, Don waited a beat before jumping in with his question. "Was your wife in any trouble, that you know of?"

"Certainly not. And if you're going to ask about lovers, please don't bother. We were happily married. Rowena didn't fool around."

"Would you know if she did...?" Don persisted, feeling oddly intrusive.

"Yes. I would." The Fairy King regarded him. "You can ask the difficult questions. I know you're simply doing your job. And you're not the only ones who want to find out what happened. Why Rowena was..."

Ducking his head, he closed his eyes, unable to finish the sentence. They watched, as pain stole over his face and was smothered.

_Actors,_ thought Don, full of doubt.

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**A/N: Aubrey and Mac. I could never quite decide whether or not they were meant to be in a proper relationship. All they really seemed to do together was eat. And then she simply disappeared. Perhaps this story will go a little way towards explaining why...**

**Thanks for all of your kind reviews and follows after Chapter One. You've given me so much confidence to carry on with this story!**

**Next update will probably be Friday, if all goes well.**


	3. Chapter 3

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Three**

_**"Dead - or asleep? I see no blood, no wound."**_

"So this is the famous Rowena May," said Sheldon.

"Was," said Adam, sadly, sealing his final tape lift. "Beautiful, wasn't she? Did you ever see any of her films?"

"I don't go to the movies much." He bent down over the body. "But I remember one - The Flame, I think it was called." Sheldon winced. "Maria made me go. My girlfriend, at the time. She loved romantic comedies. It's always best to humour a woman, I've found. Safer, anyway."

"Really?" Adam's eyes were wide, as he drank in the doctor's advice.

"Oh, yes." Sheldon grinned at the lab tech. "Isn't it time you found yourself a girl, Adam?"

"Who says I haven't?"

"New York's most eligible bachelor? You'd be shouting it from the rooftops if you met the love of your life."

"Okay... maybe." Adam sat on his haunches, feigning an air of concentration and hoping that Sheldon would let the subject drop. Truth was, he hadn't had a girlfriend in almost a year. Not that he was lonely, of course... Work was absorbing. But since that one impulsive night with Stella, things just hadn't been the same. _Guess she's a hard act to follow,_ he sighed, his blue eyes lingering on the elegant woman. Stella had called the whole thing a mistake, and he had gone along with it, smiling and laughing as he always did. Never mind that the yearning lingered. He had known long ago that it was a fantasy; pure and simple. _A dream..._

Besides, he saw how she looked at Mac. Even if she couldn't admit it herself.

"No sign of an entry wound." Efficient as always, Sheldon had settled down to work. Adam tried to focus. "No blood, either. She wasn't stabbed, or shot."

"Wouldn't the cast or the crew have heard a gunshot? After all, they were in the middle of a dress rehearsal."

"Quite right." Sheldon swept a gentle, gloved thumb across the victim's eyelid, raising it slightly. "Signs of swelling here - and blisters too. My guess would be some kind of anaphylaxis. Or poison. Tox will be able to tell us more."

Stella moved in and peered at Rowena, intrigued. "I wondered about that." Exchanging a knowing glance with Sheldon, she continued. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"What?" Adam stared at them both. "Stop talking in riddles, okay?"

"Sorry, Adam." Stella stood up, flexing her back and sighing. "Oof. That's better. If you're finished, perhaps you could do me a favour?"

"Anything."

"Go to the prop table. It'll be somewhere backstage. Bag any flowers that you find there. And be careful."

"Okay... what?" He frowned as he rose to his feet.

"They could be our murder weapon," Stella said gently.

"If we're right," added Sheldon.

Adam fumbled his way past the crime scene tape, feeling grumpy and slightly ridiculous. _So I don't know all that much about Shakespeare. So what?_ he fumed. _And maybe I should have paid more attention in English class, instead of reading comic books under the desk when I wasn't interested. Who knew there'd be pop quizzes at a crime scene? But hey - drop me down inside Halo or Assassin's Creed and I'll draw you a detailed map. We've all got our skills..._ In which case, why did he feel so small? Making a mental note to check out 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' on Google as soon as ever he could, Adam ducked offstage and looked around for the mystery table that held his evidence.

The wings were dimly lit. Adam caught his foot on a coil of rope, and landed painfully on his knees. _Not the best of starts,_ he sighed, clambering back to his feet. _Okay, concentrate. Props._ They were the items that characters used on stage, right? Like equipment in a role-playing game. Problem was, there were so many odds and ends around him that the lab tech faltered in confusion. Three different choices - up, down or left. _It's a maze,_ thought Adam, trying to be logical. _Which means I should keep on turning in the same direction, or I'll get lost. Left it is, then..._

Everyone seemed to have gathered in the auditorium by now. Finally, he was alone - but what good was that? Edging past stacks of scenery thick with tree limbs like some kind of crazy forest, Adam wished for someone - anyone - who could tell him where he was going.

_Don't be such a baby,_ he scolded himself. _You're a trained investigator. Stop acting like Shaggy from Scooby Doo._

The passageway grew even more cluttered, and ended abruptly in a solid wall.

"Awesome," muttered Adam, feeling defeated.

A door creaked open to his right. Smoke drifted outwards, eerie in the half-light. Adam coughed, as the harsh smell tickled his nose.

"Who's there?" said a low voice.

"No one," said Adam, hastily. "Well... I mean me, of course. My name's Adam Ross. I'm a CSI, of sorts. More of a lab tech, really..." _Oh, very suave,_ he thought, as a young man stepped out into the corridor and flashed him a deeply suspicious look.

"You're a cop."

"No - not at all. That is, I'm with the police... They're around here somewhere," he added quickly. Something about the man's demeanour was not quite friendly, and suddenly Adam realised just how alone he was.

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"The show must go on, right?" said Don.

He folded his arms, like a barrier.

The theatre manager stared back at him, her face a mask of stiff politeness. Every inch of her tiny figure spoke of extreme control - her neatly rolled hair, the high-necked collar of her blouse, the immaculate suit. A lone extravagance winked and blinked on her lapel - a diamanté peacock. _Proud,_ thought Don. _And way too uptight._

"Mrs Anwar..."

"_Ms._"

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry. _Ms,_ then." Don had a smooth way of making an apology sound almost like an insult. "What I mean is, I can't believe that you would carry on as if nothing's happened here. That's just cold. A woman's been murdered - and you lot want to play at fairies? I doubt that Rowena's husband would agree with you. Or her ward."

"As a matter of fact, it was Peter's idea." Yasmin Anwar shrugged her padded shoulders. "I'm not insensitive, gentlemen. Once _you_ have released us, the theatre will close for the rest of the day. Tomorrow's performance will be postponed, and we shall carry out our dress rehearsal then. This whole event is for charity, you know. _Rowena's_ charity. It's what she would want. So, yes. The show will go on, as a tribute to her vision. And pardon me, but I don't quite see how that's any of your concern."

"Simply this," Mac cut in, before Don could respond. "Right now, your theatre is my crime scene. I can't set a time limit on our investigation. Surely you understand, Ms. Anwar? There could be a murderer in your midst. Don't you want us to catch him? Or her..." he added, focussing his gaze into a penetrating stare.

_Nicely done,_ thought Flack, as Ms. Anwar wavered.

"Detective Taylor." Clearly, the other man was a philistine. Yasmin Anwar levelled all of her dark-eyed charm in Mac's direction. "Look. I assure you, everyone here will give you their fullest co-operation. But please do _us_ the courtesy of understanding _our_ position. A ticket sale is like a promise. And besides, there are more than forty people here who need to earn their living. No play, no profit - and no wage. We have our commitments, just as you do." She tried out a winning smile. It was tight, but hopeful. "The show must go on..."

Don snorted - but Mac held up his hand.

"I'm a reasonable man," he said. "And my team work hard at their job, too. As soon as they're done, you can have your stage back, to do with as you wish. But I need to ask for a favour in return."

"Yes. Anything." The gleam in Ms. Anwar's eyes was one of satisfaction.

"I'd like to leave two of my people here for the rest of the day, if I may. To look around the theatre, and talk to those members of the cast and crew who haven't yet been 'released', as you put it. I'd also like them to observe the mechanics of your rehearsal tomorrow. I promise - they won't be intrusive."

"If you feel it's necessary."

"I do." Mac shook hands with the woman politely and watched her stride away.

"You're a bad, bad man," said Don. "And I like it. You got _your_ way, and she thinks that she got hers. I _have_ to start takin' notes..."

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As if they had a mind of their own, Adam's feet began edging down the corridor, away from the stranger.

"Well," he said, "I must be going. Nice to meet you, Mr...?"

"You don't even recognise me, do you?" The actor followed him, with the lurching gait of someone who is not quite in full control of their limbs. His scent was overpowering; a mixture of alcohol, smoke and expensive cologne, with a top note of cinnamon.

"Dark," gulped Adam. "Sorry..."

"What's going on, Nathan, honey?" cooed a sultry voice from the room beyond. "I miss you already..."

"Ah well... looks like you're busy." Adam skipped backwards another couple of steps. Nathan faltered. Lifting his cigarette to his lips, he gave a short, dismissive chuckle. It wasn't a pleasant sound.

"Our secret," he warned, as he stumbled into the room and closed the door.

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**A/N: Once again, thank you so much for the reviews. Your thoughts and ideas keep me going! Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Next update should be Sunday.**


	4. Chapter 4

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Four**

_**"Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind."**_

The room was all wrong.

No matter how many times she cleaned it, or moved things around, it stayed the same. A dark and poky cave, filled with remnants of someone else's life. Hideous carpet, heavy velvet drapes. Sash windows, painted shut. Mis-matched furniture. Lindsay closed her eyes to it all, and sighed.

They had moved in a week ago, refugees whose home had been destroyed in one violent stroke, by a twisted man. A dead man. Killed by Lindsay, to save her daughter.

"I'm not goin' back there," Danny had told her, firmly. "No way. The thought of Lucy sleeping in _that_ place... It knocks me sick."

Lindsay had shrugged, and agreed.

His parents had offered to take them in, but their apartment was far too small. Too full of people, coming and going. So Danny had called in a favour and found them a bolt-hole for a couple of weeks. A borrowed sanctuary.

Perched on the edge of the worn-out couch, Lindsay watched her daughter. Lucy was totally absorbed as she sat, legs splayed, and laid her collection of stuffed toys around her in a circle. _Her own kind of sanctuary_, guessed her mother - and yet, the little girl had shown no ill effects from her frightening ordeal. Not even nightmares. Danny had been the one to suffer from those, squirming in bed beside Lindsay each night until she could hardly bear it. One light touch on the shoulder brought him out of the dream with a start, to stare at her, wide-eyed and sweating. After that, they held each other tightly, and watched for the dawn together. Sleep was a rare thing, these days.

She could hear him now, late as usual and in a rush, singing snatches of half-remembered songs as he braved the ice-cold shower. _Two able scientists - and we couldn't fix the thermostat?_ "At least we'll start the day wide-awake," Danny had offered, with that hopeful gleam of humour in his eyes. Watching her, yet again. Waiting for the breakdown that never came.

Because Lindsay felt fine.

No nightmares. No regrets - apart from the loss of their beautiful, cosy home. No irrational urge to clutch her daughter to her breast and never let go.

No pride in her actions.

Off to the side, the television murmured quietly to itself, more of a background comfort than a source of distraction. Turning, Lindsay saw a familiar face that filled her with momentary warmth. Mac Taylor was standing beside a diminutive Asian woman in a power suit, as cameras flashed and microphones bristled around them. Beneath the image, a text ran past. Soundbites, for those who liked their news in convenient chunks and snappy phrases. "Death of Titania. Famous actress Rowena May dies on stage. Tributes are pouring in. 'A bright star has fallen from the sky,' says theatre representative, Yasmin Anwar. Husband Peter Reynolds currently unavailable for comment."

"Guess Mac needs our help," grinned Danny, sauntering into the room as the message repeated itself for the umpteenth time. Lindsay jumped. The scrolling text had been strangely hypnotic. Looking up at her daddy, Lucy gave a delighted chuckle. He crouched down and held out his arms. She ran at him, scattering rabbits and bears in her haste. "That's my girl." Glancing over at Lindsay, he quirked an eyebrow. "You ready?"

"Danny, you know I've been ready all week. In fact, I've been climbing the walls. How come they let you go back to work three days ago? We went through the same thing, remember?"

"Not quite the same," he murmured. Lindsay pretended not to hear. Her coat and bag were beside her - had been for over an hour. She clutched them both, and pushed off from the sagging frame.

Rising with her, Danny swung Lucy high above his head, making her squeal. "Come on, Short Stuff. Time to get you ready. Where's her hat?" he asked his wife.

Lindsay rolled her eyes. "You're a detective," she told him, smiling fondly even as she taunted him. _So easy..._ "You find it."

"Harsh," groaned Danny, pulling a woebegone face that sent Lucy into peals of laughter. She tugged at his bottom lip with her little fingers and he gobbled her up. "Mommy's harsh."

Reaching down, Lindsay yanked her daughter's hat from the head of a grumpy-looking bear. "And a better detective than you'll ever be, Danny Messer. Now, let's get to work."

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Adam retraced his steps.

The unfriendly young man had made him wary. So, when he heard a rustling noise up ahead, he paused for a moment and gathered his nerve.

"Excuse me," he ventured, spotting a shadowy figure where the passageway met the stairs. The woman's arms held an awkward bundle. Coming closer, he saw that she was in danger of dropping it all. Forgetting his quest for a moment, Adam darted forwards. "Can I help you with that?"

"Oh - thanks!" They fumbled together, clutching at the pile of gauzy material. It was slippery, and fought against them, almost as though it had a wilful character of its own.

"Costumes?" Adam ventured a guess, taking several layers from the top.

"That's right. I've been hanging around for ages with nothing to do. I thought perhaps I should make better use of the time." She lifted her brown eyes and smiled at him over the clothes - then started.

"Hey - it's you. Still lost? That's not good."

"Bad habit of mine," grinned Adam, relaxing. "This is the second time today. You were right. This place is a maze." He stared at the girl. "How long have you worked here?"

"Two years." She bit her lip, he noticed, whenever she thought about the answer to a question. As they moved from the shadows into the sharply-lit stairwell, Adam glanced upwards.

"Where are we going?"

"Wardrobe department. Otherwise known as the 'rat-hole'. It's not the nicest of rooms, I'm afraid. And it's two flights up. Do you mind?" A loose strand of wavy brown hair fell over her pointed face and she blew it back out of the way with a comical pout.

"Not at all. But... shouldn't you be with the others?"

"I checked. There's an officer - Barry, I think his name was. He said it would be okay, as long as I didn't leave the building."

"Oh. Good." Adam looked hopeful, as a bright idea occurred to him. "Could I make a deal with you, then? I'll carry these up to your 'rat-hole', if you'll help me afterwards?"

"No problem. What do you need?"

The lab tech dropped his gaze in shame. "I'm supposed to be finding the prop table. So far, all I've found is trouble."

She giggled. "That's easy. It's just behind the stage. You must have walked right past it."

_Figures, _thought Adam. He wiggled his fingers, trapped beneath the pile of clothes. "Lifesaver. If I could shake your hand right now, I would."

"Ditto," the girl laughed, leading him up the stairs. Climbing behind her, Adam stared resolutely at the back of her neck - no lower.

_Manners, Adam._

"I'm pleased to meet you, by the way," he told her. She paused, and turned. "My name's Adam."

"Fliss," she replied.

"I beg your pardon?"

"My name. Fliss. Well, Felicity, really, but who gets called _that_ nowadays? I ask you. It's ridiculous - like some little old lady. I do like Adam, though. That's a nice name. Normal."

"Um... thanks, I guess." He was starting to enjoy the company of this frank young woman, with her tangled knot of hair, and her colourful layers of clothing - scarf, over cardigan, over tunic, all of them bundled over a pair of bright red leggings and tartan boots. _Doc Martins,_ he thought, with admiration. They suited her. In fact, the whole eclectic style was rather pleasing.

"Fliss," he echoed. "At least it's memorable."

They stared at each other.

"You know," said Adam, "you're really easy to talk to. And I don't talk easily. Well, what I mean is... I talk far too much sometimes... you know?"

"That's okay," said Fliss. "Apparently, I don't talk enough. That would make us the perfect pair..."

Realising what she had just implied, she turned away with a blush, and continued to climb.

_I should feel awkward, _Adam thought, _but I don't._ It was a new sensation.

_Fliss,_ he practised, in his head, liking the way that it sounded. _Adam and Fliss..._

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**A/N: Are things looking up for Adam at last? No - I'm not going to tell you! You'll just have to read on... Next update on Tuesday. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Review? Pretty please?**


	5. Chapter 5

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Five**

_**"Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell:**_

_**It fell upon a little western flower,**_

_**Before, milk-white, now purple with love's wound:**_

_**And maidens call it 'love-in-idleness'."**_

Stella felt a peculiar pang of regret as the elegant fairy corpse was bundled into a black bag and rolled away. Somehow, in the grove, Rowena's body had seemed at home. _Not a bad place to die,_ thought the woman - then scolded herself for entertaining such a morbid thought.

Like a spirit, Mac appeared beside her without a word.

Stella smiled.

"You startled me," she told him, lightly. "How do you manage to pop up like that? It's a gift."

"I practise on Adam." Mac's face was poker straight. "And I don't wear heels."

A sudden, ridiculous vision sprang into Stella's head and she looked away, embarrassed, until she had managed to get rid of it.

"I'm going back to the lab with Sheldon and the body," her boss continued, pretending not to notice her discomfort. "Can I leave you in charge here?"

"In charge of Adam?" Stella raised one eyebrow. "That's quite an assignment."

"I'm sure you can handle it." Mac's tone was full of levity, but there was _something..._ Stella couldn't quite put her finger on it. He kept his eyes carefully blank, and she did the same. Around them, the theatre bustled with activity - yet the two friends stood in a vacuum created by unspoken words and silent misgivings.

"Mac... I need to talk to you..."

He cut her off with a raise of his hand.

"Now's not the time, Stella."

"Later, then? Shall I come to your office?" Her voice was hopeful, but her nerves were tightly strung, like the high notes of a harp.

Mac nodded - and changed the subject, as Adam came scurrying onto the stage, accompanied by a young woman.

"Sorry I took so long," he sang out merrily. "I got a little lost, okay? But I've found them now." He waved the evidence bag on high. "They're pretty amazing, actually. Handmade, with a little vial in the middle of each one, hidden from sight. It's part of the play, Fliss says."

"And I take it this is Fliss?" said Mac with a wry glance in her direction. "What's in the bag, Adam?"

"Flowers," Stella broke in, eager to put forth her theory. Adam closed his mouth and listened respectfully. Next to him, Fliss looked uncomfortable. Eyes down, she started to inch away, aware that she was intruding. "Wild pansies - _viola tricolor _- otherwise known as Heartsease, or..."

"Love-in-idleness. I understand." Quick to follow, as always, Mac saw where Stella was going with her explanation. "The flowers that Oberon and Puck use to cast their spell on Titania and the two young men." Catching sight of Adam's 'here-we-go-again' expression, Mac continued. "'What thou seest when thou dost wake, do it for thy true love take.' Titania falls in love with Bottom, who has been cursed with the head of an ass. Meanwhile, Hermia's two quarreling suitors, Lysander and Demetrius, fall madly in love with Helena. Comedy. Chaos." He shrugged his shoulders. "Shakespeare."

"Thanks, boss." The lab tech flushed. "I'll research the play. I promise."

"Don't." Mac shook his head. Adam looked startled. "I need someone here who doesn't have any preconceived ideas. It's so easy to get caught up in what we _think_ we know, and miss something vital. Your point of view is just as important. That's why I'm leaving you here with Stella."

"It is? I mean... thanks. Again." Straightening visibly, Adam smiled at Mac. Ashamed at her own part in making him feel inferior, Stella was pleased to see him so happy. She was truly fond of the lab tech and his generous, quirky ways. It was a friendship that they had almost jeopardised a year ago, seeking comfort in the midst of sorrow - and yet he had never once cast that moment back in her face, or demanded anything more. Adam had acted the role of a gentleman, and made her feel like a lady. She respected him deeply for that. Any teasing was purely for fun - and because, if Stella was being completely honest, she just couldn't help herself. None of them could - not even Mac, whose power over Adam was far greater than hers.

Taking the flowers, and one last box full of evidence, Mac left the two of them standing alone on the stage. Glancing around, Adam was startled to find that Fliss had gone. Stella watched him with sympathy, and amusement.

"Made a new friend?" she enquired. Adam laughed.

"Like I said - I got lost. Fliss was helpful. I did meet another guy who wasn't quite so likeable." The lab tech leaned in. "He was really drunk, Stella. I could smell it on his breath. There was a woman too, but I never saw her face."

"What were they doing?"

"Um..." Adam wavered, smirking, and Stella had her answer.

"Never mind," she told him. "I get the general idea. If you see him again, point him out to me."

"No problem," said the lab tech. Inside his head, a dark phrase echoed. _Our secret..._

_My responsibility,_ he thought stoutly. "So," he continued out loud. "What would you like me to do now?"

"Reference prints, I'm afraid." Stella waved her hand in the general direction of the auditorium. The job was a mammoth one, but she knew that Adam's diligence and attention to detail would get it done quickly, and thoroughly. "Once that's over, we can start to let people go home. In the meantime, I'm going to check out Rowena's dressing room. If you need me, just send one of Flack's officers. Or Flack," she added, cheerfully, striding away across the stage.

_Oh yes, of course. Send Flack,_ sighed Adam, distracted for a moment by the dubious fantasy of an alternate universe, where sarcastic detectives could be ordered around by jittery lab rats. Sometimes, he had to wonder whether his colleagues knew him at all...

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Rowena May's private dressing room smelled of roses.

They were everywhere; bunch upon bunch, like a garden transported inside for her pleasure. Stella paused in the doorway and glanced around appreciatively, inhaling the heady perfume. Each bouquet was accompanied by a card, full of good luck wishes and expressions of love. "My dearest Rena..." "Heavenly Titania..." "Star of my heart..." The sweetest offering was set in a painted jug and placed on her dressing table, right beside the mirror. It was made up of lacy white clouds of gypsophila, mingled with soft pink miniature roses. "All my love, Peter," said the simple card.

_A man of taste,_ thought Stella. _Lucky woman..._

Catching herself, she sighed. Rowena's vibrant essence still lingered throughout the tiny room, from the photographs jammed into the mirror frame, to the clothes strewn across the chair, to the careless arrangement of the patchwork cushions on the couch...

Stella moved closer.

The couch was old, and showed signs of heavy use. The patchwork cushions were creased.

With an air of suspicion born of far too much experience, Stella fixed the filter to her torch and turned out the main light.

Bingo.

_Oh, Titania,_ thought the woman, shaking her head and making a mental note to ask Peter Reynolds for a sample of his DNA. For his sake, she really hoped that it would be a match.

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**A/N: Thank you for the reviews! It's always such a relief to know that things are working. Hope you enjoyed this update. More on Thursday.**


	6. Chapter 6

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Six**

_**"And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes**_

_**And make her full of hateful fantasies."**_

"Lindsay!"

Mac's face lit up as he stepped off the elevator.

"I'm back," she offered, shy all of a sudden. Danny stood beside her, beaming.

"Glad to see it. We missed you." Looking into her eyes, Mac refrained from asking the obvious question. '_How are you feeling?_' always sounded so trite, and so unnecessary. After Claire had died...

Mac shook his head. Showing support was always harder than people expected. Words weren't everything.

"Has Sheldon filled you in?"

"A little. And I saw the news. Death of an actress. That's got to be a high profile case, right?"

Mac grimaced.

"Right." He shifted the box that was growing heavier by the second. "Stella and Adam are rounding things up at the Prestige Theatre. Sid has the body. That still leaves plenty of evidence to be going on with. The rest should be waiting for us in Trace."

Danny slid the carton out of his grasp with a deft move. "On it, boss."

Leaving them with a summarised version of Stella's theory about the flowers, Mac stepped into his office in order to check whether any messages had popped up whilst he was at the theatre. _That sounds so decadent,_ he thought, smiling briefly.

Weariness stole through his body as he sank into the chair and pressed the button on his answerphone. Nothing but endless calls from reporters. He had already bulldozed his way through their ranks downstairs. Mac suspected that he would be muttering the phrase 'no comment' in his sleep tonight. Assuming that he made it home at all.

Letters and email printouts were piling up on his desk, next to the tray filled with unsolved cases. Mac had a marine's precision when it came to filing, but lately things had been getting on top of him. Danny and Lindsay's brush with death had jarred him in unexpected ways. Life was a precious gift, and should never be taken lightly but, even so, Mac rejoiced in the fact that Shane Casey could no longer haunt them. Of all the killers that they had encountered, no man or woman had ever been so dangerous, or so vengeful.

And then there was the other thing...

Mac pulled his top drawer open and stared at the letter.

No warning. No explanation.

Why did he feel so betrayed?

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Sid Hammerback gazed down at Rowena May with mingled sorrow and admiration.

"She was a beauty all right," he murmured.

"Don't tell me you're a fan too," said Sheldon. "Adam was clearly smitten. It was a wonder he could concentrate at the scene."

"Then he has taste." Sid raised his glasses and clicked them into place. "Rowena's beauty shone from within. Intelligence, and compassion. She was a fabulous actress, and a true philanthropist. I saw every one of her films. Even met her once. She gave me her autograph..." His eyes grew distant as he wandered into the realms of memory, and delight.

"Which is probably worth a fortune right now." Sheldon's practical words brought the M.E. back down to earth with a bump.

"Cynic." Sid smiled. "_I _didn't do it, if that's what you're implying."

"Very funny."

Together, the two men bent over the body. Just as Sheldon had done at the scene, Sid lifted up Rowena's left eyelid. The puffiness caused him some difficulty but, once he saw what lay beneath, he nodded wisely. "If you ask me, your initial evaluation is correct."

"Atropine?"

"Named after Atropos, one of the three Fates in Greek mythology. Rowena's pupils are blown wide open. Not so very long ago, you know, women used to put drops in their eyes to create that very effect. They thought it made them look more seductive." Sid's face brightened, as it always did when he found a subject fascinating. "Hence the name -_ bella donna_. Beautiful woman. Perhaps this was no murder, but simply a fatal attempt to improve her looks..."

Sheldon gave a characteristic shrug. "Mythology's all very well, Sid, but I prefer science. Atropine is an antimuscarinic. It attacks the nervous system, forcing it to lose control of vital actions like sweating, or breathing - or heart rate. That's why the pupils expand. Atropine blocks the receptors in the eye muscles. Like a hacker, stealing his way past a firewall to gain control of a system. Maybe it did make women look beautiful - but the side effects were often tragic. Blindness. Hallucinations. Even death." He stared at the woman. "By fair means or foul, Rowena May absorbed the poison through her eyes. Imagine the terror she must have felt when it took hold. No telling what harm it did to the rest of her system."

"No telling _yet_..." Sid gave his colleague a knowing smile. "Time to look deeper. I'll call you as soon as my full report is ready. Unless you'd like to stay..?"

"Sid, you know I can't," said Sheldon.

Heading out of the morgue, he turned for a moment and watched. Sid was gently removing Rowena May's costume, guiding her limbs through the awkward process with care and discretion. Hawkes' smile held echoes of nostalgia.

_Do I miss it?_ he wondered. Upstairs, already, the evidence was calling.

_Not at all._

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Adam was right. The flowers were finely crafted, for a simple prop.

"What _is_ this stuff?" asked Danny.

"It's felt. Handmade," said Lindsay, patiently. "Soft and resilient at the same time. These are beautiful." Holding one of the flowers, she turned it around in her hand. The overlapping petals were purple, with delicate strands of white and a tiny hint of yellow right in the centre, where the secret vial nestled, tucked out of sight. Twisting green tendrils completed the effect, and made a cunning stem for the actor to hold. "One each?" she offered, passing the second flower to her husband.

"So kind. Why are there two?" he asked.

"Two flowers for two fairies. Oberon doctors Titania's eyes." Lindsay frowned, as she tried to recall her high school drama lessons. "Puck casts a spell on the men - first one, then the other."

"Fairies. Right. Okay - stupid question coming up." Danny stared at the flower in his hand, and then looked across at its twin. "How do you tell them apart? They're identical."

Silence.

"That's _not_ a stupid question," said Lindsay at last.

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"Belladonna?"

Mac's expression was tired, and ever so slightly guarded as he peered down at the flower in front of Danny.

"Deadly nightshade." Danny nodded. "Just as Sheldon thought. An intense concentration. Only in _this _vial, though. The other one held normal drops - the kind that people use when their eyes are tired. Probably looks good under the theatre lights. I tell you what, though - if it was me, I wouldn't want someone else droppin' stuff into _my_ eyes, right there on stage. What's wrong with pretending? I thought that's what actors were supposed to do."

"Some prefer their props to be more realistic," Lindsay suggested.

"That didn't work out so well for Rowena, now, did it." Her husband folded his arms, secure in the knowledge that his common sense was winning.

"All right. Let me get this straight. The point that you're both trying to make is that..."

"Titania may not have been the target after all." Lindsay drew Mac's attention to the computer screen, where a digital copy of the play was currently on display. "We looked it up. The other possibility would be Lysander - he's the first of the men to be enchanted. If our murderer left the flowers on the prop table in a certain order, but the wrong one was picked up by Oberon..."

Mac sighed in resignation.

"Then Rowena May could have been poisoned by accident. That would certainly complicate things. But it's a possibility - you're right. And we can't leave anything to chance. Check for fingerprints or trace of any kind, on both flowers. Felt is rough, but you might find something useful. In the meantime, I'll call Flack and get him to broaden the investigation back at the theatre..."

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**A/N: How much do I love Wikipedia? SO much. Seeing as I'm not a toxicologist, and I've never actually tried to poison anybody. (With that in mind, would you also forgive any errors in science, please. Because I'm not a real CSI either. Shocked? I thought you would be.)**

**Your reviews continue to delight and inspire me. (Which is a 'thank you' and a hint, all rolled into one!)**

**Hope you enjoyed today's chapter. Thank you for dropping by. More on Saturday.**


	7. Chapter 7

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Seven**

_**"But who comes here? I am invisible,**_

_**And I will overhear their conference."**_

Adam was halfway through his weary task. Ms. Anwar had supplied him with a list of everyone who was present - forty three names in total - and he worked through it steadily, so deep in concentration that he barely looked up to register each person as he inked and recorded print after print, adding them to an ever-increasing pile of tencards.

Around him, the auditorium was emptying. Flack and his officers had almost finished taking statements by now, and people were finally starting to leave, rubbing their stained fingers in disgust as they headed out through a variety of exits. Lights were being turned off in unused corners of the theatre, casting eerie shadows across the faces of those who remained.

"You're joking, right?" said an angry voice nearby.

Adam lifted his head and stared at the fairy creature opposite, whose prints he was trying to capture. She shrugged and turned her gaze away, as if to say, _I know_. It was a young man who had spoken so aggressively, and the person on the receiving end of his outburst was Detective Flack.

The lab tech recognised the man at once.

_Not just me, then,_ he thought, with a sense of relief. Don Flack had that expression on his face - the one that came before a truly withering remark.

"Nothing funny about murder," he told the actor, who was dressed in tight black breeches and a flowing shirt - sadly crumpled by now, with one side tucked in and the other hanging loose. The man's hair was long, and artfully tangled. He would have been handsome, were it not for the redness of his cheeks and a certain sleaziness in his manner. "I take my job seriously - unlike some." He raised one eyebrow, as the man's overpowering smell crept out of his personal space and headed for the detective. Don's nose wrinkled and his head turned sideways, ever so slightly.

"Pardon me?"

"You heard what I said." Somehow, Don was able to keep his temper. Adam held his breath as the young actor, Nathan, drew himself up and puffed out his chest with a drunkard's typical foolish bravado. He was tall, but skinny; a spring chicken looking for a cockfight.

_Don could take him. Easy,_ the lab tech thought.

_Unlike me._

Thank goodness it hadn't come to that, all alone in the darkness behind the stage...

"Look," said Flack, with a sigh. "I don't want to argue. I'm just trying to warn you. Rowena may not have been the target after all. Do you have any enemies, Mr. Howell?"

_Easier, maybe, to ask if he has any friends._ Adam stifled a giggle. The fairy had moved away by now, and a cheeky young sprite stepped up, with his hand outstretched. Adam reached for another card and set to work, but his ears were twitching.

"Course not." Nathan Howell folded his arms. "I'm famous. Everyone loves me. Don't you read the papers?"

"What's not to love..?" muttered Don, in disgust. "So you can't think of anyone here who would want to kill you? A jilted lover, maybe? Or someone who knows you..," he added, under his breath.

Nathan's florid face turned pale. "Who's been talking?" His dark brows narrowed. For a moment, his gaze shifted left, then right - which was when he caught sight of Adam. _You,_ said the look in his eye.

The lab tech was suddenly very, very absorbed in his work. A flush crept up the back of his neck and spread out across his cheeks. _Awesome._

"Just a lucky guess." Don watched the curious exchange and made a mental note to speak with Adam and find out exactly what it meant. In the meantime, this interview was turning into little more than a drunken ramble. "Sober up, Mr. Howell. Go home - and be careful. If you manage to stay alive until tomorrow, we'll speak again."

"I'll le' my lawyer know..." the actor slurred, peeling away from Don and heading backstage. As he loped past Adam, he leaned in and hissed at him, full of spirit-fuelled menace. "Later..."

"Not if I see you first," mumbled Adam, when he was out of earshot. Looking up, he saw that the sprite had gone - and Don Flack was standing in front of him. "Prints...?" he offered, trying for humour and failing miserably.

"Information," Don said. "Right now."

"Oh... okay." Feeling more than a little stupid, Adam gave a hesitant account of his adventures behind the scenes. Don listened carefully, without a word. "You really think that jerk is a target?" the lab tech asked, when his tale was over.

"I think if I knew him for more than a day, _I'd_ want to kill him. Doesn't make him the target. But Mac says it's possible, so we have to check. Are you nearly done here?"

"Only a few more to go," lied Adam.

"Right then. I'm heading back to the precinct. I'll leave a couple of guys behind 'til you and Stella finish, just in case."

"We'll be fine..." Adam tried to hide his disappointment. Clearly, Flack didn't think that he could protect himself - or his colleague.

"Not your call." The detective turned away. "Oh - and Ross?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful, okay? That guy's a jerk, all right - a drunken jerk. And that makes him unpredictable. Watch your back..."

Adam's blue eyes followed Flack down the aisle.

_Don't worry,_ he thought. _I will..._

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The heady scent of the roses was starting to overpower Stella. How on earth had Rowena coped? She shook her head to try and clear it as she fastened up the swab and labelled it neatly.

_I need to stretch my legs..._

Standing up once more, she stepped away from the couch and began to poke through the items on Rowena's dressing table. Stage make-up. Cold cream. Hairpins. Letters from fans. And a pad with a hasty note scrawled over the lines on the top page. _Lawyer. Monday, 3pm._

Curious. Stella took a photograph of the jumbled spread, then lifted the notebook and dropped it into an evidence bag. Nothing? Or something? Only time would tell. But the smallest detail could make a difference. With that in mind, she also bagged the fan-mail. Who knew what pyschopaths could be lurking behind those innocent pages?

Moving across to the clothes rack, where Rowena's everyday clothes mingled humbly with shimmering fairy robes, Stella was startled by an unexpected noise.

It came from outside the room - a sharp thud, rather like an elbow striking the wall by accident. She stood still, and listened. In the corridor, whoever-it-was began to tiptoe away, their footsteps muffled, but urgent.

Someone was spying on her.

Angry by now, she strode to the door and peered out. But there was a junction nearby, and the unknown spy had already slipped round the corner to safety. _Dammit,_ thought Stella. She knew that she couldn't leave the evidence behind, unguarded, just to go chasing shadows. It was so frustrating.

Closing the door, she settled back down to work, documenting the whole room in photographs, and bagging anything that could possibly hold a clue to Rowena's killer. The activity focussed her mind and, as her temper cooled, logic returned. Maybe, after all, it was nothing more than a stagehand satisfying their morbid curiosity.

Half an hour later, Stella had finished at last. Closing her case with a snap, she lifted the bundle of evidence and headed back out of the room in search of Adam. Surely the lab tech would be done with his prints by now? And, if not, he would probably welcome a helping hand. Stella smiled at the image of his friendly face and how it would light up if she made the offer.

Backstage, the theatre was growing cold. Clearly, an outer door was open somewhere. Stella's mind wandered idly, trying to calculate the cost of heating such an old and awkward building.

Passing the stairs, she never saw the stranger step out of the shadows.

Two invisible hands shoved her roughly in the small of the back. Stella found herself tumbling through the open doorway. Dropping everything, she reached out to grab the handrail, but missed. Her heel slipped on the polished floor, and her ankle turned. With no chance of recovery, Stella toppled headlong down the stairs, too startled to scream.

Behind her, the door closed quietly.

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**A/N: In light of Mahala's unfortunate incident (see reviews), Myriad-13 and I would like to suggest a new rating for fanfic, especially those stories containing Don Flack, Mac or Adam, which can be used for the whole story, or just individual chapters: NC. No Coffee. (This can also apply to tea, orange juice, or a wide variety of hot or sticky beverages that could seriously damage your keyboard/phone/laptop...)**

**Once again, Mahala... So sorry!**

**DebbieA: Thanks for your review. Don't worry - plenty of Adam to come... (you know me!)**


	8. Chapter 8

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Eight**

_**"Either I mistake your shape and making quite,**_

_**Or else you are that shrewd and knavish sprite**_

_**Called Robin Goodfellow."**_

Cold stone.

White light.

Stella lay on her back and stared up at the naked bulb.

How did she get here?

_Falling,_ she thought. _I remember falling..._

Turning her head carefully, she saw the steps rising high above her like a mountain, stark and angular. The top was impossibly far, and she shuddered. _Surely not..?_

Yet here she was.

Stuck between two floors, halfway down a lonely staircase.

Stella inched her elbows back and used them to lever herself up until she was almost in a sitting position. Every inch gained brought a fresh discovery; bruise upon bruise, all over her body. Yet, miraculously, nothing seemed broken - until she shifted her legs, and a bolt of pain shot up from her right ankle, paralysing her in sudden shock.

_Oh, God..._

She bit her lip. Looking down, she saw that the heel had snapped right off her shoe. _My favourite pair,_ she thought sadly, wondering where it had gone.

_Focus, Stella._ _Stop putting off the inevitable._ Wincing, she reached down and shrugged the leg of her trousers up her calf, afraid of what she might find.

Relief swept over her.

It could have been worse.

Far worse.

No bones jutting out; no gaping wound. No blood. Stella gazed at the swollen, puffy mass of flesh that used to be her ankle and gave a sigh.

_I suppose I was lucky._ Raising her eyes to look at the stairs again, she took a deep breath and clenched her teeth in determination, preparing herself for the challenge that was yet to come...

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Finished at last.

Adam snapped his case shut, pausing to make sure that nothing had been left behind. That would be such a blow; to get back to the lab and find out that the prints he had spent so long collecting were resting neatly on the floor of the auditorium. Mac would have his hide...

He gave a weary chuckle and glanced around the empty hall.

Not a soul in sight. Not even Officer Franks, who was off somewhere checking the building for a renegade journalist that had supposedly broken in.

_Better find Stella,_ thought Adam, preparing himself for yet another dizzying trip backstage. This time, he was going to be ready for anything. The fingers of his left hand curled around his flashlight. Adam smiled. No monsters lurking in the dark would frighten him now. Light was his weapon, and his safeguard.

_Maybe, one day, they'll let me have a gun, _he mused. On reflection, however, that thought was just a little too scary. Guns caused far more problems than they ever prevented. Handling one in the lab was easy. Adam could shoot a dead pig at twenty paces, right on target. Aiming it at another human being, though... He wasn't sure that he ever wanted to be in that position.

Which reminded him. Lindsay would be back at work by now. Adam's spirits lifted. The lab was his home, and it only felt right when all of his family were there, safe and happy. He had wept, alone and sorrowful in his apartment, as he pictured the scene, and the dreadful choice that Shane Casey had forced his friend to make. Danny's face, when he returned, had still been white and there were dark rings around his eyes. Lack of sleep, guessed Adam, who knew more than most about the power of nightmares. He could only imagine what Lindsay was going through.

With a start, the lab tech shook himself. _Lost in your head again, Adam,_ he scolded sharply. _Didn't you promise yourself that you were going to pay more attention at work?_

He lifted his case and headed through the tiny doorway, following the steps that would take him back up and onto the stage. So odd, being all by himself in such an enormous place. Abandoned by the artificial moon, which was nothing more than a set of stagelights on a suspended rig, the empty scenery gave off its own eerie glow - a far more believable fairyland. Drawn by the sight, Adam wandered out into the forest for a moment, staring up at the two-dimensional branches as they criss-crossed overhead. Fairy tales had never played much of a part in his childhood but here, on his own, standing quietly in a make-believe world, he began to understand their lure. It was primal, and full of power...

A prickle ran down his back. Two pale eyes were staring at him down by the edge of the trees... _I mean stage, _thought Adam, wildly, as he clawed his way back to the real world.

"Go away," said a doleful voice.

Adam faltered. Here was a young man in distress, sitting alone in the darkness. Should he obey, and leave him to his misery? _I have no right to get involved, _he sighed. _I'm meant to be impartial. That's what Mac would say._

But was it what Mac would _do_?

Hard to picture his boss walking by when someone was hurting. Deep down, Adam wished that he had known Mac years ago, when things were... well,_ bad_, and he really needed somebody on his side.

Which made up his mind, in the end.

"Can I help?" he asked quietly, inching forwards. "I mean... I know I can't make things right, exactly. But sometimes it's good to talk..."

He knew who the young man was. Henry Kirk, the ward of Rowena May and Peter Reynolds. He had been near the top of Adam's list, and had given his prints without resistance. Or conversation, Adam realised now. Or eye-contact.

Classic withdrawal symptoms.

Not surprising, of course.

"Says you," the young man muttered rudely, turning his back. His thin legs dangled over the edge of the stage. Below his leggings, he was barefoot. Long red hair curled away from his shoulders, tucked behind his character's pointed ears.

"Says me," Adam agreed. Henry's head swung round and his eyes peered upwards. They really were extraordinary - so pale, and full of emotion. Halting, Adam raised his hands in a show of submission, treating Henry like a wounded animal. One that might turn at any moment and show its teeth...

"Can I sit down?" he continued.

"You _can_. Don't know if I want you to, though."

_Picky,_ thought Adam. Silently, he waited. In the end, the young man shrugged his shoulders.

"Fine. Go on, then. Suit yourself."

"Thank you."

Adam sat down beside a painted bush and swung his legs out into space. "My name's Adam," he said. "And you're Henry - right?"

"I'm Puck," the young man said bitterly. "Robin Goodfellow. Hobgoblin. Creature of mischief."

"Oh - are you?" Adam nodded, trying to look wise. "Um..."

Distracted at last, Henry gave a dismissive shake of his head. "You don't know the play at all, do you?"

"Hey!" All day long, indignation had been building up inside Adam. Jokes from his colleagues were one thing. But this was a boy, not more than seventeen or eighteen, if Adam was guessing correctly. "I'll tell you what, okay? You recite the periodic table for me and I'll give you a sonnet in return."

To his credit, Henry was apologetic. "Sorry," he sighed. "Point taken. I'm a dunce at science."

Adam's mouth fell open in an 'O' of surprise. Had he really won that round? Trouble was, there was no pride in his victory. After all, the boy was grieving. Wasn't he supposed to be offering sympathy?

"My bad." Adam straightened his face. "I shouldn't have snapped like that. Besides, you're right. I don't know squat about Shakespeare."

Was that envy in Henry's pale blue eyes?

"Rowena... she was obsessed. She knew every line of every female character. Desdemona. Lady Macbeth. Titania... That's why she wanted to do this play. She was so sick of all the corny films that her agent kept making her do. The same plots, over and over again, with different settings - that's what she said. The Dream was supposed to be special. Something we could all do together, and be proud of."

"I like her films," said Adam simply. "It doesn't matter how corny they are. She makes them come alive. There's this look in her eyes..."

"I know it." Henry nodded, clutching Adam's sleeve in his eagerness. "A sort of gleam, like she's about to laugh... Like she knows the most incredible joke..." His face fell. "I can't believe... Did - did you _see_ her eyes? When she was lying there?"

"I did."

"They were terrible." Henry looked sick. "I can't believe..." he faltered once more, and dropped his head into his hands. Adam watched in dismay.

"Perhaps I should go," he murmured, rising to leave. "Is there anyone..? I don't want to leave you here all by yourself."

One pale eye peeped out between the young man's fingers.

"You're kind," he observed, in surprise. "I don't know why, but you are. Peter's around here somewhere. He knows where I am. I guess he's just left me to 'have my cry'. Got sick of trying to comfort me. Don't worry. I'll be okay. It's nice here, on my own. No offence," he added, as Adam looked guilty. "You stopped. It startled me at first... but I'm glad you did."

"Oh. Okay, good." Feeling awkward, the lab tech started to move away. Then he paused. "I don't suppose... Rowena's dressing room. Could you tell me how to find it?"

"One good turn deserves another." Henry gave a weak smile. "Stage right. Along the corridor. Two lefts, and then straight on. You can't miss it."

_You'd be surprised,_ thought Adam, nodding his thanks as he left poor Puck to grieve by himself in the forest.

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**A/N: Your reviews are my inspiration. Thank you!**

**Hope you enjoyed this chapter. More on Wednesday.**

**Oh, and by the way - if you fancy a challenge, check out the forum section, where Leslie Emm has revived the Fic Challenges post!**


	9. Chapter 9

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Nine**

_**"Full of vexation come I, with complaint."**_

Stage right. Down the corridor...

Adam followed Henry's instructions doggedly, turning on his flashlight and seeking his way with a careful eye. _Don't get lost,_ he repeated to himself, like a charm. _Just find Stella. Don't get lost..._

"You look like a ghost hunter," giggled a voice behind him. "What's with the flashlight?"

"Oh - hey, Fliss." As he spun round, the beam caught her eyes. She flinched, and he lowered it. "Sorry. They've been turning everything off, and I didn't want to miss my way. Again." Adam raised his eyebrows. "Ghosts?"

"Of course. This theatre is very old, you know. Several people have died here over the years, and there are stories..." Fliss raised her hand to her mouth. "Oh! I'm so sorry. That wasn't tactful of me at all." Her face clouded over. "Poor Rowena..."

"Poor Henry Kirk," said Adam. "I met him, out there on the stage. He's a mess."

Fliss looked down at his case with a sigh. "You _are_ leaving, aren't you?"

"Probably. Once I find Stella. She's in Rowena's dressing room..."

"No, she's not." Fliss frowned. "I just passed by. The door was open and the room was in darkness. Not even a flashlight..."

_Great._ A tiny niggle of doubt wormed its way into Adam's mind. _She didn't forget about me, did she?_ What if Stella had already gone?

_Don't be ridiculous, Adam._

_You know she'd never do that._

_I hope..._

"Adam..." Fliss gave a nervous smile. "I waited around because I wanted to ask you something. Do you think...? Okay, the thing is, a bunch of us are meeting up at Marlowe's later on. It's a bar, just across the street from here. I don't suppose..." Struck by a sudden realisation, she shook her head. "But no - of course, that's silly of me. You're probably not allowed... Because of the case, right?"

Adam swallowed, glad of the shadows that hid his burning cheeks. He could almost feel Mac standing behind him, stern eyes boring into the back of his head. "I wish I could..."

"Of course." Fliss swept the hair from her eyes with a clumsy gesture that was meant to be nonchalant. "Some other time."

"No, Fliss. I _really_ wish I could." Reaching out, Adam took her hand as it fell away from her brow and brought it closer, clasping it firmly. "Tonight is bad - you're right. But when this case is over... things'll be different, then."

"Okay... Okay, I'll hold you to that." Fliss peered through the gloom. Her hopeful eyes latched onto his as she dug in her pocket for a scrap of paper. Adam held out a pen, and she scrawled down her number. When she handed the pen and the paper back to him, he grinned. Tearing the fragment in half, he wrote something down in return and folded it into her palm.

"See you soon," he told her.

Walking away was strangely difficult. Keeping his back turned was harder still.

_Stella,_ he thought. _Must find Stella..._

Fliss watched him go. When he was out of sight, she unfolded the paper.

'I keep my promises,' read the note. Below was a number, and his tiny signature: 'Adam Ross'.

"I hope you do, Adam Ross," whispered Fliss, with delight.

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So many stairs.

_I'll never take elevators for granted again,_ thought Stella grimly, as she hauled herself upwards, hand over hand on the railing. Her one good foot hopped from step to step. It was a dangerous way to climb, and very tiring. With motion came pain, in dizzying bursts. Several times, she came close to tilting backwards and ending up right where she started, down at the halfway point again.

_Not an option._

Taking a deep breath, she pulled hard on the handrail and gained yet another tiny victory.

"Help!" she called out. "Is anyone there?"

No response.

"Dammit, Adam," she muttered, between clenched teeth. "Get down here. I need you!"

Maybe, if she cursed him often enough, his ears would start burning.

In the meantime, there was another step to conquer...

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Adam plunged further into the darkness. Not another soul crossed his path. The beam from his little flashlight flickered and grew pale for a second. Pausing, he slammed the end of the barrel into his palm and the light recovered.

"Oh no, you don't," he told it firmly. "First we find Stella. Then you can give up the ghost..."

_Ghost._

Not the best metaphor.

Adam glanced around him nervously. All of the charm that Fliss had brought to the area backstage was now gone. The endless, narrow corridors were cold, and a musty smell pervaded everything, mixed with the scent of... what_ was _that? Some kind of flower?

Poking his head through the nearest doorway, Adam turned on the light and sighed with relief. A room filled with roses. Surely this had to be Rowena's dressing room? He glanced at the door, which was wide open. There was her name - thank goodness. But where was Stella?

Time to retrace his steps.

"Stella?" he called out, tentatively.

No answer.

Adam slapped his forehead and gave a groan. _You idiot - why not just call her cell?_

This place was really starting to get to him.

He fished around inside his jacket pocket, and brought out his phone. Stella's number was high on his list of favourite contacts, coupled with a photograph that he had taken surreptitiously at work, about a month ago. The elegant woman was bent almost double, hysterical with laughter. It had been a wonderful moment, brought about by some foolish antic of Danny's - Adam couldn't even remember what. He had been so transfixed by the sight. At the last second, he had remembered his phone, and taken the candid shot that made him smile whenever he looked at it. One day, he would confess to Stella - but not just yet. She would probably make him delete it, and he wasn't ready for that. It was nice to see her so happy and relaxed, without the shadow that seemed to haunt her eyes these days.

As he pressed the last button, a familiar tone began to sound nearby. It was muffled, but clear enough that Adam could identify it as Stella's cell phone.

So where was she?

He tiptoed forwards, listening intently.

Wait! Was that it? Behind the door...?

Reaching out, he turned the handle and stuck his head through the doorway - only to be confronted by the weary face of Stella Bonasera. She did not look happy.

Adam's cry of triumph died upon his lips.

"There you are!" she gasped. "Adam, where have you been?"

"What..? But you told me..."

"Never mind," said Stella. "You can stop ringing now," she added, spotting the phone in his hands. Obediently, Adam turned it off and shoved it back into his pocket. As he did so, he noticed her own cell, which had skittered into a corner near the door. Picking it up, he held it out to her.

"You're hurt..." he faltered, as she hopped towards him, scowling in pain. Why on earth hadn't he noticed that until now? The way that she held her foot suspended off the floor? _Some investigator you are... _Adam rushed to her aid at once, slipping his shoulder beneath her arm and propping her up. Stella's weight was nothing compared to the guilt that racked his soul. She was right. He had taken too long... "What happened?"

"Someone pushed me down the stairs." Her green eyes flashed, and Adam shuddered.

"Why would they do that?" He cradled her back, trying to give the woman extra support without her noticing. Adam knew full well that Stella was not the type to accept help if she could manage under her own steam - but he could also see that her ankle was badly swollen, and her face was drawn. "Stella - sit down for a moment and tell me what happened, okay?"

"I'm fine." She glanced around. Her case was lying nearby, where she had dropped it. But the bag of evidence... That was nowhere to be seen. "Adam! It's disappeared. You need to look for it!"

"Look for what?" He gazed into her deep eyes, puzzled.

"My evidence." To his dismay, Adam saw that she was almost close to tears. "They've taken my evidence..."

"Then it's long gone."

She started at the tone in his voice. It was soft, but urgent. "Stella, look. Forget it. We need to get you to a doctor. Right now, okay? You've had a bad fall. You're in shock." _So am I,_ he thought secretly. Hard to compare this bruised and frantic woman to the joyful picture on his phone. _Concentrate, Adam,_ he told himself. _This is about her, not you. Don't freak out. She needs you._

"I'm not."

"You can't fool me." Adam caught her anxious, darting stare with his own. His blue eyes were solemn, and his expression was firm. "Hospital. Now."

"No," she insisted. "First, we take your prints to the Crime Lab. We can't afford to lose anything else. Besides, Mac needs to know what happened. Then you can drive me to the E.R. I promise."

Adam knew that he was in the right. But Stella was his superior - and so what else could he do? "Fine," he sighed, wearily. "Lab first." Reaching out, he picked up Stella's case and tucked it under his free arm. Now he was carrying two, and supporting the CSI into the bargain. Taking a deep breath, he headed for the corridor. Stella hopped along beside him, her arm draped across his shoulders gratefully.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "I shouldn't have shouted at you."

"That's okay." He didn't really have much strength to speak, or to listen. Adam focussed on where he was going, and Stella lapsed into silence. Together, they struggled down the corridor. Every now and then, Stella let out a tiny hiss of pain. Other than that, the only sound was their laboured breathing as they headed for the nearest exit, one shuffling step at a time.

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**A/N: Huge thanks must go to Lily Moonlight, who put up with my ramblings when this chapter and the next one were driving me mad. Your support has been invaluable. Hope you enjoy the result!**

**Equal thanks to all those who continue to post reviews for my stories! I love to read your comments. They're the highlight of my day.**

**Next update should be on Friday.**


	10. Chapter 10

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Ten**

_**"...what, will you tear**_

_**Impatient answers from my gentle tongue?"**_

Mac's eyes were tired. He rubbed them with a trembling hand, then lowered his fingers and stared at them in dismay. Too much caffeine, no doubt. Exactly how many cups of coffee had he drunk since coming back from the theatre? He couldn't remember - and that was bad.

With a sigh, he forced himself to keep reading. Sid's report was lengthy, and full of detail. The atropine had had a catastrophic effect on Rowena's heart rate, leading to a cascade of failures within her body. Death had been swift, and terrible. Mac shook his head. Each day, he saw the heartbreaking things that human beings were capable of doing to one another - and it never ceased to burn inside him, though he hid it as well as he could. War had been bad enough. But these weren't soldiers. They were ordinary people, living their lives side by side with their neighbours, never suspecting the fate that lurked around the corner, waiting to bring them down...

"Mac. You okay?" said Danny.

"What? Yes, of course." Mac looked up. "Go home, Danny. Take Lindsay. I'll see you both tomorrow."

"Will do. Thanks, boss." The detective hovered in the doorway. Tilting his head, he grinned. "You gonna take some of your own advice for once?"

"When I'm done." Mac gestured to Sid's report. "Just a few more pages."

Clearly, Danny was unconvinced. Shifting his weight, he stared at his boss with narrowed eyes. Mac took refuge behind his usual mask, the perfect image of a man who was in control. Still, he knew that the cracks were there to see, for someone who knew him well enough. Someone like Danny - a dog who would never let go of a bone, once he found it.

In the vain hope that his colleague could take a hint, Mac turned to the next page of Sid's report. At the same time, a cheerful 'ping' announced the arrival of the elevator. Danny glanced over his shoulder - and his jaw dropped in dismay. "Ah... boss? You might wanna see this..."

Almost reluctantly, Mac rose from his desk and crossed the room. Peering out, he was met by a most alarming sight. Two weary figures, clinging together like orphans in a storm. "Stella?"

"I'm fine, Mac." She held up her free hand, the one that wasn't clutching Adam for support. _Leave me alone,_ said the gesture.

"No, she's not," Adam muttered. His blue eyes were dejected. In his role as human crutch, he was starting to buckle under the strain. Danny leapt to his aid, retrieving the awkward cases.

Mac's eyes were fixed upon Stella. At the sight of her bone-white face, something twisted deep within his chest; a blow to the heart that echoed the bruises on her skin. Her self-control was a fragile thing, as she raised her chin in a trembling show of determination. Full of dismay, Mac turned upon Adam.

"Why are you here?" he demanded. "You should have gone to the hospital."

Adam grew still and lowered his gaze. "I know. I'm sorry." His words were barely audible.

"Sorry's not good enough, Adam. Look at her, for God's sake. What were you thinking? Or were you even thinking at all..?" His voice cracked, as the injured woman stumbled. Mac sprang forwards, clasping her firmly and prising her weight from Adam, who stepped back without a word. "How did this happen?"

"I don't know. I... I wasn't there."

"It's not his fault," Stella intervened. Mac could hear the tightness in her voice, masking the true extent of the pain that she was feeling.

Standing alone and off to the side, Adam lifted his head and caught her eye.

"Yes, it is," he insisted. "You're injured. Mac's right - I should have taken the lead."

"Does it really matter?" asked Danny, gazing from one face to the next. "Surely the most important thing right now is getting Stella to the E.R.?"

"It is," Mac said. "I'll take her myself."

"But..." Adam opened his mouth and then shut it again. He turned to Stella, who shook her head, pressing her own lips together tightly. _Not your fault,_ her eyes said once more.

Adam tugged his case from Danny's grasp and walked away.

Watching him leave, Mac felt ashamed. Deep down, he knew exactly what he had done. Channelled his fear into anger and fired it, point blank, straight at the easiest target. _Inexcusable, _sneered his conscience. Emotion had taken hold of him and it wouldn't let go - not even to let him apologise. Stella leant against him, the tremors from her body shuddering through his own in shared distress. "Come on," said Mac, far more gently now. "We need to get you some help. Danny, fetch my jacket. Please," he added.

Oddly silent, Danny obeyed. The last thing Mac saw, as the elevator doors slid to, was the unhappy look on his colleague's face.

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Adam had always been good at hiding when he didn't want to be found. The crime lab may have been made of glass, but he knew all the secret nooks and crannies. Right now, he tucked himself into a tiny alcove between the outside window and one of the few solid walls. Safe at last, he set down his case and shoved his hands into his pockets.

_Badly done, Adam._

Reason glared at him and demanded to know why he blamed himself.

Adam shrugged. _Doesn't matter,_ he sighed. _Mac's annoyed, and Stella's hurt. This day couldn't get any worse._

Deep in his pockets, Adam's fingers twitched in a nervous cycle, clenching and releasing, over and over again. One hand curled around a scrap of paper and he brought it out, biting his lip.

_But it could get better..._

He pictured the theatre girl, Fliss, with her smiling face and her kind eyes.

Stupid. But tempting.

Reason gave up in disgust, as Adam reached for his phone.

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**A/N: Oof! This chapter was **_**hard.**_** I'm grateful once more to Lily Moonlight, for her editing and her advice. I'm learning so much as I write this story. Hope you enjoyed the update. Next chapter on Sunday. Thanks for reading! Reviews would be very much appreciated, as always. (Thanks must go to Myriad-13, Leslie Emm, CAT217, Mahala and Lily, who have reviewed every chapter so far. You're amazing!)**


	11. Chapter 11

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Eleven**

_**"I am amazed, and know not what to say."**_

The evening sun was still strong and Mac's car, when he opened the passenger door, was a furnace.

"Take off your jacket," he said, as he eased Stella into the seat. The last few yards had proven to be such a struggle that Mac had swept her right off her feet, in spite of her protests, carrying her across the rooftop like a genuine damsel in distress. Stella felt embarrassed - but also secretly grateful. His arms were strong and his manner was attentive. Once she was settled, he placed one discreet hand beneath her calf and manouevred her injured leg into a comfortable position. Stella sighed with relief.

"Thank you, Mac."

And there it was; the smile that she loved so much. It lit up his whole face, driving away the clouds. No words were necessary. He was glad to help, and she was glad to accept.

He circled around the front of the car and slipped in beside her. "I thought you might be mad at me," she admitted, shrugging the jacket from her shoulders with some difficulty. The bruises along her arms were tender, and even the gentle passage of the cloth made them sting.

"What for?" The car purred into life as Mac stared at his passenger with a quizzical expression.

"For losing evidence, of course. And for being so stubborn. Poor Adam..." She gave a helpless grin. "His instincts were good, you know. I was the one who insisted on coming here first."

"Why?"

Stella turned in her seat, startled by the question. This time, Mac kept his attention fixed on the rearview mirror as he pulled out of his parking space and swung the car round to face the exit.

"Come on now, Mac. Hysterical women who've just been pushed down the stairs are allowed to have faulty logic. Wouldn't you say? It seemed so important at the time. Adam's prints, and my report. When I saw that the evidence had gone... Oh!" One slim hand flew to her mouth.

"What's the matter?" he demanded, braking sharply.

"I'm so stupid." Her eyes were wide as she stared at the jacket on her lap. Mac waited breathlessly, caught up in her sudden flare of emotion. "It's right here. He pushed me, Mac. With both hands. We have to go back to the lab..."

"Not an option, Stella." Where Adam had failed, Mac was victorious. The authority in his voice was absolute, and it eased her panic. Reaching out, he lifted the freshly discovered evidence from her knees and placed it behind them. "Tomorrow will do. We're going to the hospital. And I won't take 'no' for an answer."

"Yes, Mac." She dropped her head meekly, trying to hide her relief as she relinquished all control of the situation. At last, she was truly in someone else's capable hands. _No offence to Adam,_ she thought. He had tried his best, and she was sorry for the way that she had treated him. But Mac... The man was a rock. A shoulder to lean on; a patient ear to bend with curses and complaints. The voice of reason in her passionate world.

Stella clasped her hands together tightly as an unexpected surge of guilt swept over her, like an icy wave.

This was the moment.

The one that she had been waiting for. Dreading, even.

Her conscience pushed her, hard.

"Mac," she began, not knowing quite how she was going to continue. _Feel your way, Stella._ "I've got something to tell you..."

"Now?"

"Yes, now." If she waited any longer, it would drive her insane. Already, acid was churning in her gut, making her feel sick.

"Should I stop the car again?" His tone was dry, but Stella could hear the tension behind his words.

"I don't think so. It's nothing bad. At least... well, it's good news, really..." _Oh God. I sound like Adam._ This was ten times worse than she had ever dreamed it could be. In the background, like a heavy drum beat, the pain from her ankle throbbed through her leg. _Do it quickly,_ she thought. _Like a band aid - one awful moment and then it's over._ "I'm leaving. That is, I've been offered another job. In New Orleans. Supervising their crime lab - it's a promotion, really..."

"I know."

"They phoned me this morning and gave me a week to decide, but I think I'm... Wait. You know?" Full of surprise, she turned to face him. Mac continued to stare straight ahead.

"Yes, Stella. I've known for several days. You put me down as a reference. What did you think would happen?"

And suddenly, everything was crystal clear. His stilted manner; the darkness in his eyes. "I thought... I only applied a week ago. And I didn't even think I stood a chance. Or that things would move so quickly." She gave a shy smile. "Looks like they really want me to accept... I'm sorry, Mac. I've been trying to build up the nerve to tell you. Guess my timing's a little off..."

"Yes. It is." His words were abrupt, and Stella flinched.

"Then you _are_ mad."

"With you? Of course not. I'm pleased."

"You don't sound it," she told him archly.

"How do I sound?"

_Disappointed,_ she thought. _And weary._ "Never mind." Stella took a deep breath to steady herself and turned the conversation. "Will you give me a reference?"

"Of course." For some strange reason, his answer filled her with regret. Was he going to let her go that easily, after all? Mac focussed on the road with grim determination. At last, he spoke again, in a voice that was so low she had to strain her ears to catch his words. "If you tell me why you want to leave. The truth, please, Stella."

She pressed her aching temples, trying to hold back the pain that threatened to take up residence in her head.

The truth.

Such a simple request.

_But how can I do that?_ she thought. _It isn't fair._ "I need a change of scene," she said at last. "New challenges. Blame Shane Casey, if you like. And Lindsay. Her courage taught me that life is precious. I think... Well, the truth is, I'm not happy, Mac. Not any more." She held his silent gaze with her own, afraid that, if she let her guard down completely, he would pierce her soul - every thought and every emotion, his for the taking.

"Is it my fault?"

Stella's mouth fell open in shock.

"_Your_ fault? Mac..."

So close to the mark. Stella panicked. What could she tell him?

_Anything but the truth._

The car rolled gently to a halt.

Mac reached over and clasped her fingers.

"Stella," he insisted. "Please. Just tell me. Is it my fault?"

_Oh, God. It's written all over my face,_ she thought in despair. _I know it is._

The look in his eyes was more than Stella could bear and she gave a low cry of pain. At once, Mac pulled away, full of contrition.

"I've pushed you too hard," he muttered, reaching for the key. "This can wait."

She held out her hand. It brushed his arm and the touch made him pause.

"No, stop," she said. "I'll tell you. Please - just give me a moment..."

Dipping her head, Stella brought her hands back together and folded them neatly, trying to create an illusion of serenity. Inside, she was raw, and afraid.

"I have to go because it hurts too much. To be near you, I mean. Every day, and to know... You're my best friend, Mac Taylor. It's too much to risk..."

"What do you mean?" His voice was rough, and Stella shivered, in spite of the heat.

_I'm standing on the edge of a cliff,_ she thought. If she jumped, then her whole world would change. If she turned and walked away... Why, then she would regret it for the rest of her life. Mac was her friend. He deserved to hear the truth from her own lips - whatever the consequences. Stella gave a sigh of resignation.

"Seeing you with her... It just makes me realise... There's no chance at all."

"Stella. Who are you talking about?"

His surprise was genuine. She glanced up through her lashes, puzzled. "Aubrey, of course."

Mac gave a short bark of laughter. It was unexpected, and wonderful.

"Funny," he said. "That's the second time today that someone has made that mistake."

"Mistake..?" The hope in her voice came out far stronger than she had anticipated.

"Yes," Mac repeated gently. "Mistake. Stella, I'm not with Aubrey. I never was. We're just good friends. No one could build a relationship based on food. Well - maybe Don..." He gave a tentative smile.

The beat of her heart was the sound of a bird taking flight.

_I can breathe,_ she thought. And then: _what have I done?_

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**A/N: This chapter is dedicated to Lily Moonlight, with thanks for her sound advice. Writing Mac and Stella has been a real challenge for me so far (which is always good). I hope you're enjoying it. And I'd really like to thank those of you who reviewed chapter ten and restored my confidence.**

**If you're missing Adam - don't worry! Chapter twelve is all his. And it's going to be full of fun, I promise... **

**Next update on Tuesday.**


	12. Chapter 12

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twelve**

_**"I know not by what power I am made bold."**_

Marlowe's Bar was dimly lit and full of raucous laughter. Theatre-goers held the floor, sharing cocktails and secondhand opinions. Rowdier by far were the actors and stagehands, who kept to the wooden booths; loud voices striving for the lead role in their vigorous discussions. Fake candles flickered in a series of dusty lanterns; one for each table and several more around the walls, each lighting a worn-out playbill, signed by a dated cast. The titles were strange. 'Doctor Faustus'. 'The Jew of Malta'. 'Tamburlaine'.

Adam stood in the doorway and stared at the image of a gleeful skeleton, beating a drum as it threatened to march its way out of the nearest poster. 'Faustus'. That rang a distant bell. Didn't the guy make a deal with the devil?

Creepy.

He shuddered and turned away. Granted, Adam had been to more than his fair share of weird bars since moving to New York City, but this one made him feel distinctly out of place. How on earth was he going to find Fliss? So many shadowy corners - and she could be in any one of them. He certainly wasn't going to poke his nose into every nook and cranny until he found her. That was a sure-fire way to get himself into trouble.

_What am I doing here?_ he sighed, taking several nervous steps towards the bar. Lights flashed in front of his face, as one group mistook him for a celebrity and captured his image with their cell phones, ready to grasp their moment of almost-fame on Twitter, or Facebook. Adam dodged away in alarm - and bumped straight into Fliss. "Oh - thank goodness!" he said, full of unashamed relief.

She grinned and took hold of his sleeve. "This way," she told him, dragging him round to a sheltered corner. Ignoring the sharp scent of stale beer that caught in his throat, Adam turned his back to the wall and propped his arm on the high wooden counter, trying to look relaxed. Fliss pulled a comical face.

"Dreadful, isn't it? Still, the beer's good." She raised her hand, and the bartender hobbled towards them on six-inch heels that had to be causing her serious pain. Adam stared across the bar at her bright red lips, and her movie-star eyes. He was so distracted that he didn't even hear Fliss order their drinks. She punched him, hard, as the Starlet tottered away. "Hey! You're with me. Remember?" Her words were good-humoured, but even so, Adam felt that he ought to explain himself.

"Sorry. I was just thinking... seems like everyone wants to be famous around here. But not you." He gave her a warm smile. "You're different. Guess that's why I like you, Fliss."

"WYSIWYG." She shrugged, enjoying the look on his face. "That's your language, isn't it? Computer-speak. What You See Is What You Get. No complications." Fliss lowered her voice and leaned in. Her perfume was subtle, and spicy. Adam swallowed. "I like that too," she murmured.

"Oh. Good," he croaked - and then laughed at his own unfortunate manner.

The Starlet plonked their beers on the counter, making him jump. Amber liquid sloshed back and forth, escaping over the side of the glass and adding its own sticky signature to the collection that stained the dark wood. "Let me," he offered, before Fliss could pay. Shoving his hand in his pocket, he pulled out a crumpled bill. "Keep the change," he told the bartender. Maybe now she would leave them alone for a while...

No such luck.

With a meaningful wink, she pursed her vivid lips and blew him a kiss.

"You're cute," she simpered.

Adam choked on his drink and blushed to the roots of his hair. Fliss giggled.

Just then, a loud commotion called the Starlet away to the other end of the bar. "Thank goodness," Adam mouthed.

"That's Tammy," his new friend explained. "She's been here for years. Goes to all the auditions, and flirts with every producer - yet I don't think she's made it into a single play."

"She seems so confident," sighed Adam, watching the Starlet wield her vampish charms to defuse what could have become a drunken brawl.

"She knows what she wants. I envy her that." Fliss shook her head. "I can't seem to make up my own mind. Playwright or costume designer. Which is why I'm treading water right now, as a lowly wardrobe assistant. Also known as a gofer. How about you?"

"What?" Startled by the sudden twist in conversation, Adam floundered. "Oh. Um, well... I work in the lab, most days. I like it, too. Fighting crime in miniature. But I guess... Well, lately I've been thinking that I'd like a change. You know, to be a proper CSI? Though I don't suppose I'm the right kind of person really..." He paused, and stared at her, full of surprise. "D'you know, I've never told anyone that. You're sneaky. Maybe you should work at the crime lab too."

"What, with all that blood and gore? No chance." Smiling, Fliss drained her glass and set it back down on the counter, matching the base to the sticky ring. Adam chuckled, and did the same. "Want another?" She glanced down the bar, in search of the Starlet. Before she could call out, however, a tall man broke through the crowd and lurched across to join them, breathing hard and stinking of whisky.

Adam dipped his head. _Just my luck,_ he groaned.

Nathan Howell.

Clearly, the actor hadn't stopped drinking since the theatre closed its doors. _Surely there must be a saturation point for alcohol in the human body? _thought Adam. Peering upwards, he watched in disbelief as Nathan downed yet another shot before draping himself over Fliss. An ugly leer distorted his handsome face. Full of revulsion, Fliss twisted out of his grasp and pushed him away.

"Get lost, Nathan."

His lewd face filled with childish anger.

"Slut!" he hissed. "You were keen enough before."

Fliss let out a gasp of horror. "That was two months ago," she told Nathan fiercely. "Before I found out what a jerk you really are. And before you left me to sleep with the oh-so-glamorous Sadie Winters. Speaking of sluts..." She left the sentence hanging. Two red spots burned high on her cheeks; a sign of utter shame.

That was all it took.

Adam squeezed her hand and stepped forward.

"You should go," he said, trying hard not to stammer.

The actor gawped at him in drunken disbelief.

"You gonna make me?" he demanded. Peering closer, he narrowed his eyes. "Hey, wait... Do I know you?"

"I know _you_," said Adam. "And I know that the press would love to hear all about your amazing way with women." His eyes were steel, but his hands were shaking. He hid them behind his back.

"That's a threat..." Comprehension made its way slowly across the actor's face. Adam waited. "You can't threaten me, you little..."

"Nathan!" Fliss tried to pull Adam backwards but he refused to budge. Inside his chest, the pounding of his heart was a warning drum. Adam ignored it. Fuelled by frustration and disgust, he felt reckless, and giddy - and bold.

"I'll say it one more time, okay? Please leave."

"Oh, well, if you're gonna say please..." Feigning submission, the actor took a single step backwards. Adam waited. He hadn't spent all that time around Danny without picking up a few tips. Which was why, when Nathan lunged forwards, Adam was ready for him. Ducking smartly to the side, he squeaked as the actor slammed into the bar.

"Why, you nasty little creep!" With a roar of unbridled fury, Nathan pushed himself upright and staggered around in a circle, searching for Adam.

Too late.

Out of nowhere, a fist connected with his face. Nathan reeled... and faltered... and fell. Like a sack of potatoes, he hit the floor and lay there, unmoving.

_Knockout,_ thought Adam, stunned by his success.

A deathly hush stole over the bar.

Adam stood alone, gazing down at his vanquished foe. Chills ran through his body as the adrenaline drained away. _From Hulk back to human._ He stumbled - and Fliss was there. With a strong arm around his shoulder, she steered him towards the door. He moved through the mass of blank faces, afraid to catch anyone's eye - until suddenly, out of the blue, the Starlet gave a delighted giggle.

"Somebody get that trash off my floor," she said.

And the whole place erupted.

Once again, cameras started to flash - but this time, it was Nathan Howell whose bruised and unconscious face was about to be posted worldwide. Adam and Fliss fought their way through the crowd, as hands rained down on his back and voices called out their hearty congratulations.

"Stupid jerk!"

"Guess he deserved it."

"Awesome!"

_I feel sick, _thought Adam, overwhelmed. But Fliss was still there, and before he knew it, they had broken free. Outside the bar, the air was cool, and - thank God - the street was empty. Adam's head spun, as Fliss pulled him round the corner, into an alleyway. There, they leant against the rough brick wall, gasping for breath as they tried to cope with what had just happened.

"I can't believe you did that!"

Fliss turned - and all of a sudden her lips were on his; soft and unexpected. Adam lifted his hands and cradled her head, stroking her cheeks with his gentle thumbs. His body, so cold a moment ago, filled with heat, and joy. When at last they broke apart, his blue eyes were shining.

"You're happy," Fliss murmured.

"I'm flying..." whispered Adam. _This must be what it feels like to be strong. To be Don Flack, or Danny. To get the girl..._

He wrapped his arms around her.

"Flying..." Fliss looked thoughtful. Spinning neatly out of his grasp, she took hold of his fingers with her own firm hand and started to guide him back towards the street. "I owe you, Adam Ross," she said. "And I've got a wonderful idea. Come with me..."

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**A/N: In case anyone is interested, Marlowe's Bar is named after Christopher Marlowe, a contemporary of Shakespeare, and the posters on the wall are from some of his plays. Marlowe himself was murdered in a bar brawl.**

**Next update will be on Thursday. Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.**

**To everyone who reviewed the last chapter - I was very grateful for your kind words. I worked really hard to get that scene right and your response made me feel so happy! **


	13. Chapter 13

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Thirteen**

_**"O most courageous day! O most happy hour!"**_

"Stella, are you sure?"

Mac watched her hop through the open doorway on her newly acquired set of crutches. He already knew the answer to his question. Ever the gentleman, he stood on the threshold and went no further, even though part of him - the greater part - was straining to push those boundaries, just this once. Timing. Timing was such a delicate thing. Already, they had made too many mistakes.

"Of course. You know me, Mac. I'll be fine."

"I do know you." Mac's tone was humorous. Gone was the strain of the past few days. "That's the problem."

"Very funny." Shaking her head, Stella gave him a look of deep gratitude. "I'll probably just go straight to bed. It's been a long day."

_And a strange one,_ he thought, as he dragged his gaze away from her deep and slightly drowsy eyes. "Good idea. I'd better do the same." Three hours spent waiting in the busy ER had sapped his strength. He could only imagine how tired Stella must be. White fingers clung to her crutches, but her chin was high.

"Mac Taylor, admitting he needs to sleep? The world must be coming to an end."

_Or just beginning._ Mac gave an impish smile and held out her bag of medication. "Good night, Stella."

She took it, and he turned to go. "Wait," she breathed, suddenly awkward. "It's just... I wanted..."

Like a magic spell, her words released him.

"Yes," said Mac. "I know." With strong hands he reached out to support her as he moved in. The kiss was brief, and chaste - and perfect.

"Tomorrow," he whispered.

Walking down the corridor, Mac could feel her eyes upon him. Only when he reached the stairs did he hear the click of her door.

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"We're not breaking in, are we?"

Adam peered over his shoulder. The alley behind the Prestige Theatre was quiet, but still he was nervous.

"Why? Is that a problem?"

"Fliss! I work for the Crime Lab, okay? I can't commit a crime! Besides, my boss is psychic, or as good as, and he... Oh!" Adam looked suitably sheepish as he gazed down at the bunch of keys in her hand. She swung them back and forth in triumph.

"Gotcha!" Fliss's grin was wicked. A tiny mirror image tugged at the corners of Adam's mouth.

"Kind," he muttered. "Very kind."

"My pleasure. Ah! here it is." With a single twist, she opened the door.

"Where are we going exactly? You never did say." Looking back one more time, Adam took a deep breath and followed her into the darkness. "Fliss! Please, just wait a moment. Tell me what's going on."

"A treat for you," came the disembodied reply, floating down the narrow corridor. "Keep up! We wouldn't want you to get lost, now, would we?"

"Ha ha." Stretching out with his fingers, he trailed them along the wall and quickened his step. The heavy door swung to behind him, making him jump as it snatched away the last of the daylight. "Don't you theatre types believe in light switches?"

"Course we do," Fliss carolled. "Where do you think I'm going?"

Over his head, a single lightbulb flared into life. Adam glanced up in surprise - and then wished he hadn't. Dazzled, he rubbed his eyes and waited for the tiny glowing spots to fade away.

"Come on," said Fliss.

She was standing in front of him. How did that happen? Her warm breath tickled his lips and he leaned towards her - only to find himself reaching for empty air as she danced down the corridor, laughing with fairy-like glee.

Adam's heart beat faster.

"Wait!" he cried. "Fliss! Wait for me..."

Leaving a trail of brightly lit passages through the dark maze, they made their way deep into the heart of the building. Adam caught up with Fliss and claimed her hand, their fingers lacing together with comfortable ease. "I trust you," he whispered.

"You shouldn't," she teased, brushing his cheek with her lips. Adam giggled, and turned his face, catching her mouth with his own in a delicate kiss that was all the sweeter for being stolen.

"We're here," Fliss murmured. The tips of her ears were pink.

"Here where?" Feeling more than a little giddy, Adam stared around him. Once again, he was in the wings, on the opposite side this time. The stage was so black that it seemed like the cavernous mouth of a monster, waiting to swallow them whole - until Fliss reached out behind his head and flipped a switch.

In an instant, the whole world changed. Across the eerie forest, shafts of moonlight fell, throwing the twisted branches into stark relief. The darkness was still there, but now it was trapped; a tangled web of shadows and secret corners. Adam stepped forwards, pulled by an inner desire that he couldn't quite name.

"Not yet," whispered Fliss.

He turned round to face her - and saw that she was holding something in her arms. A harness, clipped to a pair of strong wires that stretched above her head and vanished into thin air somewhere between the lighting rigs and the walkways. "Oh!" said Adam. "No..."

She laughed at his startled expression. "Don't you want to know how it feels to be Superman? To really fly? Adam, there's nothing like it. I promise."

"You've done this?"

Fliss nodded proudly. "Two seasons of Peter Pan, back home in Washington State. I was younger then, but I still remember the feeling. Third season, I worked the rig backstage. I won't let you fall..."

"I know," he said, taking his strength from her solemn brown eyes. Then he lowered his gaze to the harness. "Looks a little tight..."

"I'll be careful." There it was again - that wicked grin. The last shred of Adam's resistance melted away. He stepped into the harness and she began to strap him in. Her fingers moved slowly. Adam closed his eyes and held his breath. The moment was exquisite. Fliss giggled softly. "Done," she told him, rising up and stealing another kiss from his lips whilst his guard was down. "Now - stand right there at the back of the stage. The rig's on a track. You'll be able to get that far."

_Easy to say,_ thought Adam, whose legs were trembling. Fear was no longer the problem. His blue eyes opened wide and he stared at Fliss. In the pale light, her face was serene. "You're beautiful," he told her - then blushed at his own audacity.

Clearly, Fliss was unused to compliments. Stepping backwards, she ducked her head in a clumsy 'thank you' that endeared her to him even more. She flapped her hand and he stepped away with a chuckle, moving onto the stage and facing outwards into the black pit of the auditorium.

With a snap of the wires and a jerk of the harness, Adam rose into the air.

"Oh!" he gasped. The stage slipped away beneath him, and the branches snatched at his clothes, as the rig took him higher and higher. At first, he panicked that the webbing simply wouldn't hold him, or that the wires would tangle around the scenery. But as he grew used to the strange sensation, Adam laughed out loud and began to enjoy himself. "Whaddup?!" he cried out in jubilation. The phrase echoed round the empty theatre. Somewhere down below, he knew that Fliss would be smiling.

Swinging back and forth, he struck a heroic pose. The harness allowed him surprising freedom of movement, supporting his core as he tilted this way and that. "You'll believe that a man can fly!" he boasted. Down below, a tiny flash was his only clue that Fliss had captured the moment. Blackmail or wonderful memory - he didn't care. She was right. This was amazing.

_I'm flying! Really flying..._

Better than swings at a park, or a fairground ride. Better than beating his own high score at Guitar Hero. Better, even, than sending Nathan crashing to the ground...

As Fliss brought him slowly down to earth with a skilful hand, Adam settled his feet beneath him and tried to breathe normally. Inside, his chest swelled with pride and utter delight.

"Thank you," was all he could manage when Fliss padded onto the stage and began to release him.

"Now we're even," she told him, peering upwards between her curling lashes. Adam stroked her cheek and bent down smoothly, cupping her chin and tilting it so that her lips met his. She rose with the kiss, one hand reaching out to the wire for support and the other hand lost in his wavy hair.

_Flying..._ echoed the joyful voice in his head.

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**A/N: Wow. Okay, the harness idea was a dare - and I always like a challenge. This was HUGE fun to write, so I hope that you enjoyed it as much as I did (And Adam. And Fliss.)**

**I did some research on the subject, but I'm not an expert on flying rigs by any means. If you are, and I've made any glaring errors, please be kind and forgive me. It was all in the name of romance!**

**Next update will be on Saturday. Back to the mystery... And how will Adam cope with the aftermath of his little date...?**

**By the way - seven reviews for the last chapter? Thank you so much! Go Adam!**


	14. Chapter 14

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Fourteen**

_**"So quick bright things come to confusion."**_

"Come fly with me; let's fly, let's fly away..." sang Adam softly. The elevator doors slid open and he danced out into the corridor - much to the amusement of Mac, who was walking past at that very unfortunate moment.

"You look happy," he observed.

"Oh... um, yes," grinned Adam. "I mean - hey, boss." He tried to straighten his face, with little success. "How's Stella?"

"She's here," said Mac.

"She is?"

Together, they looked down the hallway. Right at the other end, Stella's curly head was clearly visible as she sat at her desk, sorting through paperwork.

"Confined to base?" Adam asked, full of sympathy. He knew what that was like. Yesterday's outing was one of the few rare occasions when he was let out into the real world. He was the tech guy, not the secret agent. _Just call me 'A'..._ "So - where do you want me today?" he continued. Neither man mentioned the altercation that filled the space between them like a big pink elephant. Much to Adam's surprise, Mac's face seemed brighter than it had of late. Still, that didn't mean that he was about to do something foolhardy. Like apologise. Again.

_No need,_ he told himself firmly. _This is a new day. Time to start over._

"You're with me," said Mac. "We're going back to the theatre."

_Oh, crap._

Suddenly, far too late, the guilt came crashing down. Now Adam had a serious problem on his hands. Driven by reckless frustration, he had acted against all reason and gone on a date with Fliss - a possible suspect. Leading to his fight with Nathan Howell - a possible target. Part of him wanted to open his mouth and confess, right there and then. The other half - his self-preservation, forged in the heat of a violent childhood - begged him to stay silent. Adam wavered. His eyes darted this way and that.

"Problem?" asked Mac, with shrewd concern.

"Ah - no." He swallowed. "Theatre. Right, boss. I'll just get my kit."

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Lindsay clutched the evidence bag containing Stella's jacket. "Don't worry," she reassured her friend. "If there's even the smallest print on here that doesn't belong to you, or Mac, or Adam - I'll find it. We'll get them, Stella." She smiled, her eyes full of warmth. "I'm just glad you're okay. I mean..."

"No, you're right." Stella tilted her head in understanding. "It could have been so much worse. A sprain, I can live with. And the bruises. They're not pretty, but they'll heal." She held out her mottled arms, and Lindsay pulled a face.

"You never saw anything? Not even a glimpse?"

"No." She frowned, searching her memory for even the tiniest scrap of useful information. "Back at the dressing room... someone was watching me, I'm sure. They ran away then, but they must have doubled back and pushed me, just so they could steal the evidence. That's the key, Lindsay. I'm sure of it. Something from Rowena's room is vitally important." Her voice was tight with emotion. With a deep, calming breath, Stella forced the images to recede once more, taking with them the strain of that terrifying moment when she had found herself falling, helpless and out of control.

"We'll get them," Lindsay repeated gently, hugging the bag to her chest.

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A light, uncomfortable drizzle was starting to fall as the Avalanche pulled up, yet again, outside the Prestige Theatre. _Typical,_ thought Adam. The weather echoed his own despondent mood. Gone was the sense of joy that had followed him all through his dreams. He wouldn't have missed last night for anything - but still... His conscience gnawed at him, with little rat's teeth, until he felt physically sick.

_I have to tell Mac,_ he thought. Already, his boss was stepping out of the vehicle, full of purpose. Adam tumbled out on the other side and cleared his throat.

"Hurry up," Mac said. "The dress rehearsal is being repeated today. I need you to stand in the wings and pay attention."

"What am I looking for?" Adam's voice was low. If Mac guessed that something was wrong, he didn't show it. Maybe he assumed that Adam was still hurt by his treatment the day before, when he brought Stella back to the lab. In fact, that was far from the truth. The only person he blamed for his heedless actions was himself.

"Details," Mac said. "Think of it as one of those strategy games that you love so much. Watch how the pieces move and where they go. The science of interaction, if you like. Take notes. Anything that strikes you as useful, or just plain odd."

"I'm not very good at 'people'..." Adam stared back at his boss with a dubious expression.

"You're good at observation." The compliment was surprising. "And you're thorough. As for 'people'," - Mac laid the same deliberate stress on the word - "you're better than you think. Have a little faith in yourself." His smile was almost an apology. Adam's eyes grew wide.

_Okay,_ he thought, gathering his wits. _This is it. The perfect moment..._

...which was snatched away, as the main door opened and Yasmin Anwar came gliding out to greet them. She was dressed all in black today, with a glittering spanish comb rammed tightly into her sleek, coiled hair, and high boots that gleamed beneath her rippling skirt. The peacock brooch had been exchanged for a far more sober ornament - a silver locket on a black velvet ribbon. It nestled in the hollow at her throat.

A small boy dressed as an Indian princeling clung to the back of her skirt. His face was made up, ready for the stage, but the resemblance to his mother was clear. "Tariq. My son," she told the men, wrenching their gaze away from the boy and back to her own sharp face.

"Hi," Adam whispered, wiggling his fingers. Tariq stared back rudely and he flushed in surprise.

"Good morning, Ms Anwar." Mac reached out to shake her hand. She brushed his fingertips with her own and then pulled back. "I hope that our arrangement still stands. You have your stage - but I need full access to your rehearsal."

"Of course." Her words were friendly, but her tone was laced with disapproval. Standing a little behind his boss, Adam watched her dark eyes tighten. Heavy make-up only served to heighten the redness that she was trying so hard to conceal. Either she had been up all night, or she had been crying. Bitterly.

_For Rowena?_ he wondered. _Maybe they were friends..._ And yet, somehow, that didn't seem likely.

Maybe this was one of those 'details' that Mac had spoken about. Adam's interest began to quicken at last. Nothing intrigued him more than a puzzle that needed solving.

Ms Anwar spun on her heel and led them into the theatre, right through the front door this time, and across the gilded foyer. Photos of Rowena May were everywhere, perched on easels and pinned to the walls; head shots and movie stills, hurriedly gleaned from the internet. Wreaths and bouquets were still being placed by a girl in jeans and a smart black t-shirt that bore the Prestige logo. She sneezed, as she set down a vase full of lilies. Passing by, Adam grinned at her in sympathy. Ms Anwar only frowned, whilst Tariq gave an ugly snort, reminiscent of a pig.

_Charming,_ Adam thought, watching the feather bob on the little boy's turban as he strutted through his mother's plush domain.

"So, your son's in the play?" he ventured, as they climbed up a wide set of stairs and passed through into the auditorium. The heavy door swung shut behind them. Adam was filled with an all-too-familiar sense of space, and mystery. "That's nice."

Mac walked beside him, listening silently. Adam could feel his amusement.

"He's the changeling boy." Ms Anwar's cheeks glowed with pride. "He causes the quarrel between the two fairies, Oberon and Titania. She has him. Oberon wants him."

"And who gets their way in the end?" Adam's interest in the plot was mere politeness - a way to stimulate conversation. He found this tiny woman fascinating; all sharp angles and self-control. Beneath the mask, he could tell, was a seething creature.

"The Fairy King," said Yasmin Anwar scornfully. Then she smiled - but not with her eyes. "I beg your pardon. Don't you know the play, Mr...?"

"Ross. Adam Ross. And no - I don't." Oddly, the question didn't bother him any more. With a sideways glance at the stage, he shrugged. "Not yet, anyway." A memory beckoned. Pale light. Gentle movement. Soft lips exploring his face...

"Adam," Mac whispered, in warning. He gulped. Already, their guide was striding down the aisle, her high boots flashing to and fro. Theatre folk scattered in her wake.

As he and Mac headed towards the stage, Adam sighed in despair, ducking his head as he tried to come up with a plan that did not involve baring his soul in the middle of a very bright, very public dress rehearsal full of strangers.

Strangers who were smiling at him.

Adam blinked.

No - there it was again. Only, this time, the smile was accompanied by a knowing wink.

Around him, the theatre grew blurry and indistinct, a dizzying whirl of noise and light, as the realisation filled him with absolute horror.

_Oh, God._

_They saw what happened._

_They know it was me._

He stole a glance at his boss, who was walking beside him, oblivious.

_I'm doomed..._

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**A/N: Thanks to Lily Moonlight, for her editing skills! And thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter - I'm so glad you enjoyed it. (I was a little bit nervous.) We're now heading into the second part of the story. The next update will be on Christmas Eve. Ooh, that sounds so nice...**


	15. Chapter 15

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Fifteen**

_**"Give me your hands if we be friends..."**_

He stood in the doorway, watching her for quite some time before she registered his presence and looked up. When at last she did, her whole face brightened.

"Don!"

He stepped forward without a word. Sympathy shone in his kind blue eyes, causing Stella to blush with embarrassment. "I know. But it looks far worse than it is. Really."

"If you say so." Trying not to stare at the bruises on her arms, Don gave a wary smile. Seeing Stella in pain was like finding a crack in a beautiful porcelain doll. It felt wrong, in every conceivable way. "You're as bad as Mac - you know that? What are you doing here, Stella? Shouldn't you be at home?"

"Doing what?" she demanded warmly. "I'm not sick, Don. I'm just a little sore."

He glanced at her crutches, which leaned against the edge of her desk. Stella followed the path of his gaze. "For balance," she insisted.

"Whatever you say." He shrugged, and out came his cheeky grin, much to Stella's evident relief. Clearly, she didn't want any more fuss - so he would oblige his friend and change the subject. "Any new leads that I should know about?"

"Lindsay's looking for prints on the back of my jacket." A momentary cloud passed over her face, but she drove it away with a sunny smile. "And Danny's working the evidence lifted from the scene yesterday. You'll find them both in Trace, if you want an update."

"Thanks." Don hesitated. Finally, friendship triumphed over reticence. Moving around the desk, he laid a hand on her arm, taking care to avoid the painful stripes that marred her skin. "I'm glad you're okay," he told her, echoing Lindsay's heartfelt sentiment.

She squeezed his fingers in silent gratitude.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Adam stood in the wings, feeling more out of place than a mouse in an alley full of cats. Silent, grinning cats, who circled around him, pretending to mind their own business when, in reality, they were sizing him up to decide how best to split him several ways for their mid-morning snack.

Not that he was paranoid, or anything.

Mac had left with Ms Anwar, heading for round two in Rowena's dressing room - an attempt to replace as much lost evidence as he could. With him went Adam's chance of owning up, for now at any rate.

_Might as well do my job, then,_ he sighed, not even sure how he was meant to go about that. Fishing around in his pocket, he pulled out the little black notebook that travelled everywhere with him. Deeper still was the tiny stub of a pencil.

"Is that all you've got?" said a cheerful voice. "It won't get you very far. Here - try this."

Adam took the offered pen, looking up in surprise at the young man who stood before him. Quickly, he searched through his mental catalogue of faces from yesterday's printing marathon.

Jason de Vere. The English actor playing the role of Demetrius and - so it would seem - the only other kind person in the theatre, apart from Fliss.

The young man was short, with a definite air of roguish charm that Adam found quite appealing in his current nervous state. Jason's hair was dark and his green eyes held a wicked twinkle. "I know who you are," he murmured.

_Uh-oh._ "What do you mean?" said Adam, trying to look innocent.

"Last night. I saw what you did."

_Which part?_ "Um.. okay."

Jason shook his head, as he gave a low chuckle. "Don't worry. I won't tell your boss. Friendly-looking guy. I'm guessing he doesn't know."

Adam gave up.

"Not yet."

"Well, it won't be long before he finds out, one way or the other. You're something of a hero around here now. With _almost_ everyone..." he added, glancing sideways at a miserable figure who skulked behind the backdrop. Two baleful eyes connected with Adam's startled gaze. Stiffly, Nathan turned away. His face was heavily made up, in a vain effort to conceal the swelling across his cheekbone.

_Did I do that?_ thought Adam, full of dismay.

"Nice punch," whispered Jason, in his ear. "Wish I'd thought of it myself." Reaching out, he grasped Adam's hand and shook it vigorously. "Anything you need. Anything at all. Just let me know."

With a grin, he slipped back out of sight. Adam blinked.

Unexpected.

Could it be that his reckless act was going to prove useful after all?

_A hero, _he thought in disbelief.

_Not when Mac finds out..._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Dammit!" sighed Lindsay, glaring at Stella's jacket in frustration just as Don walked through the door.

"That bad?" He skirted around the light table, joining her husband on the other side.

_Sensible choice,_ said Danny's face.

Laughter bubbled up inside him. Don held it back with an effort. "What's the problem?"

"I hate partials. You would think," she continued, placing her hands on her hips, "that shoving someone in the small of the back would leave a definite impression."

He raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"Apparently not." Lindsay's gaze was dark, and full of vexation. "Looks like Plan B is my only option. I'll have to try and reconstruct enough of the missing detail to form a useful print."

"It's worked before," said Danny mildly.

"Yes - but this is our only chance. I _need_ to find out who did this." Her voice was anxious, as she glanced up. "I promised Stella."

"Stella's fine," said Flack. Danny moved round to stand by his wife, staring down with her at the troublesome prints.

"I can tell you one thing," she continued, leaning against his arm for one brief moment of support. "The person we're looking for is small. A slightly-built man, or a woman."

"So - we're looking for someone with fairy-like stature. In 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Not very helpful, I'm afraid." Don sighed. "Two thirds of the people that I spoke to yesterday could easily fit that description. Sorry, Lindsay."

"That's okay. I'm not giving in. I just needed to vent." She elbowed her husband. "Your turn. Show him what you found."

"Oh yeah?" Don stared down at the handmade flowers. "Love-in-a-mist. These are the murder weapons, right?"

"One of them is." Moving back to join him, Danny pointed. "That one. I checked for prints, but everything came out fuzzy. Epithelials I got, but without a warrant for DNA, or a credible suspect... well, you know the drill. Only other thing I found was this." He tapped a microscope slide that held a few innocent-looking grains of white powder.

"Coke?" said Don.

"Hydrated magnesium silicate," said Danny.

"Oh, well, easy mistake." The detective pulled a face. "And that would be...?"

"Talcum powder," grinned the CSI. "Perfumed, actually. Find the guy or girl who smells like a baby's bottom, and you may have found your killer."

Lifting a nearby glove, Don reached out and picked up the innocent-looking purple flower. Intrigued, he twirled it between his fingers. "Strange way to poison someone," he mused. "Nice twist, though, using the actual plot. Our killer did a helluva lot of research, if you ask me. Think it was Oberon after all? A double bluff? Or was somebody trying to frame him?"

"That would depend on the real target - Nathan or Rowena," Lindsay offered, pausing in the middle of her task. She laid the sealed print on the table and gave them her full attention once more.

"Oh sure, that Lysander guy is a real jerk, I'll admit it," said Don. "But my gut still says that Titania was meant to be the victim all along, not Lysander, or even Demetrius. It's perfect. Almost part of the play - if Shakespeare had wanted to turn a rom-com into a murder mystery... okay, what?" Looking up from the flower, he found that both Danny and Lindsay were staring at him, their mouths agape.

"You a Shakespeare buff or somethin', buddy?" Danny smirked.

"No, of course not." Don gave an unconvincing shrug. "You think I don't know stuff?" All of a sudden, his eyes were shifty. "I know stuff."

"You looked it up last night on Google," Lindsay guessed.

"I did not."

"There's a copy of CliffsNotes in your jacket pocket," Danny accused him.

Don lifted both lapels aside. The only thing tucked beneath his jacket was his gun, resting snugly in its holster.

"Guess again," he said, starting to enjoy the joke. Lindsay's eyes had regained some of their customary sparkle. "No - I tell you what. Let's make this a bet. I'm feelin' smug today. I bet the both of you that you can't find out how come I know so much about this play. You've got until... let's say six o'clock this evening. One more guess each - and only one."

"What does the winner get?" Danny looked suspicious.

Lindsay was smiling openly by now. "The winner gets to see the losers in tights. Full fairy costume. Right here in the lab."

Both men stared at her.

"You'd like that, would you?" Danny asked her, playfully. Like Don, he had noticed the sudden lift in her spirits. "Okay then - you're on."

Feeling slightly less confident all of a sudden, Don stuck out his hand. They shook on it solemnly, one at a time.

He turned to go.

"Six o' clock, then," Lindsay called out after him.

"Bring your tights," Danny added, with a grin.

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**A/N: And with that lovely image in mind, I'll wish you a Merry Christmas! Next update will probably be Thursday, or Friday at the latest.**

**By the way - who would **_**you**_** like to win the bet?**


	16. Chapter 16

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Sixteen**

_**"Lovers and madmen have such seething brains."**_

Mac Taylor had always regarded himself as a practical man; not given to flights of fancy. But right now, as he stood on the threshold of a teeming world, it seemed to his wary eyes as though he had stepped out of reality and into another dimension, where nothing was quite as it should be. A stranger at a secret carnival, he began to weave through the crowds, passing creatures in masks and vivid make-up, who gazed back in return, equally startled by his solemn presence.

Ahead of him, trailing her son by the hand, Yasmin Anwar forged a dark path. Her black clothes stood out against the vibrant colours all around her; earthy shades that ranged from rich warm ochre and loamy brown to a green so achingly bright that it was almost golden.

Whispers rose and fell, merging into a single sound, like a distant breeze. Above, and far away, was a ripple of fairy music running in trills and scales.

Mac blinked, and shook his head to clear it.

As he did so, a pair of green eyes flashed past, ringed with kohl and painted shadows. Like and yet unlike. He caught his breath, as a memory stirred...

_Stella, glaring fiercely, caught in the throes of a passionate defense..._

Which melted into...

_Stella, smiling in sudden delight at some long forgotten joke..._

Which melted into...

_A look of wonder, as she saw his heart at last, and glimpsed her own face there..._

Eyes. The windows to the soul. Where had he heard that before? Normally flawless at placing quotes, Mac stumbled. _No doubt about it_, he thought. She had thrown him off balance - and how would he ever be able to recover?

Did he even want to?

"Mr. Taylor."

"It's Detective," he supplied, with a sigh. "Detective Taylor." The sound of his name brought him back to the present and placed him firmly in his surroundings.

Ms. Anwar stared at him. "Here we are," she said. There was more beneath her words, but he could not make it out. Her face was inscrutable. In contrast, Tariq's state of mind was obvious. Boredom - which oozed from every part of him like a fog. Small fingers played with a golden cord that was gradually peeling away from his costume. A dull frown puckered his forehead. Mac felt vaguely sorry for the boy.

With a flick of her wrist, Ms. Anwar opened the door to Rowena's dressing room. From Stella's clear description, Mac knew precisely what to expect. Bouquets of roses. Feminine clutter. A couch with a guilty secret.

He was not prepared for the sight which met his eyes.

The room was a wreck of its former self. Destruction was everywhere. Shreds of paper on the floor; torn pictures strewn across the dressing table. Roses, wrenched apart by a violent hand.

Yasmin Anwar gasped and her fingertips flew to her lips.

Tariq giggled. His painted face was suddenly alert.

Beside them, Mac was silent. In the midst of so much chaos, he had already seen the empty space against the wall. It wasn't hard to guess what should have been there.

Rowena's couch.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The small group of musicians down in the orchestra pit had finally finished tuning their instruments. A hush fell over the theatre as they stared at one another in rapt concentration. Finally, in that single moment just before the pause became unbearable, a violin began to play, skipping up and down the scales in a carefree dance.

Adam released his breath, surprised to find that he had been holding it in.

"Mendelssohn," whispered a voice in his ear. "Arranged for a quintet. Gives a much lighter feel, don't you think, than a full orchestral overture?"

"Sorry," said Adam. "I really don't know what you're talking about."

Although, deep down, he had to admit that he was beginning to respond to the music. It was enchanting, and it spoke to him. When he turned and saw Puck's white face shining through the gloom, the combined effect was striking.

_Maybe I should go to the theatre more often,_ he thought.

Out of nowhere, an image of Danny popped into his head, one eyebrow raised as he challenged his friend.

_Shakespeare? Really?_

Adam frowned. Okay - so he might be getting carried away. But this new world was very confusing.

Henry watched him, full of curiosity. "Are you alright?" he hissed. "You look a little... bothered."

"No. I mean, yes - I'm fine." Adam pushed the illusion out of his mind and grinned back shyly. "How are _you_ feeling? Last time we met, you were... Oh."

_Sensitive. Very sensitive._

_Well done, Adam._

Henry looked thoughtful.

"No - you're right," he agreed. "I was a mess."

"And now you're... tidy?" It wasn't the right word - but Adam found himself distracted by the young man's eyes. They slipped so easily from one mood to the next. Cloud and sunlight. Hard to follow.

"I am," said Henry, gravely.

"That's good. I guess, as an actor, you're trained to handle emotions better."

_I should ask for lessons, _Adam thought.

"You can fake them better."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on. You've heard that corny expression. 'The show must go on'. It was my... It was Rowena's favourite." There they were again, the clouds that filled his eyes with shadow, hiding his pain from those who did not wish to look deeper. This time, Adam saw it clearly.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he murmured, taking shelter in the crime lab's own stock phrase.

"Thank you." Changing the subject as easily as he changed his expression, Henry stared at him. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I have to watch the show. Well, the actors, really. And the crew." He waved his pen, and the little black book, which was open and ready.

"But you don't know the play," said Henry, glancing down at the clean white page.

Adam sighed. "No, I don't."

The actor reached out and pressed a rolled-up bundle of paper into his hand. Adam's fingers curled around it.

"Take this," said Henry. "I don't need it any more. Scribble all over it, if you want to." His laugh was short, and apologetic. "I have."

"Oh," said Adam, full of surprise. Unrolling the pages, he found that Henry's gift was a dog-eared copy of the script. 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' was printed across the front in bold letters. Under the title was a rough cartoon, sketched in red. Puck, with his ears sticking out, and his pale eyes wide. The copy was labelled too. _Henry Kirk_ - signed with the same red pen.

When Adam looked up to thank him, Puck had gone.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Henry's cramped notes were everywhere, even on pages where Puck wasn't named. Adam tried to read them, but it was difficult. He knew that he couldn't afford to lose concentration, now that the play was stirring to life all around him. Tucking his notebook away, he set to work on the script, as he started to fill in the few remaining gaps with his own notes - equally messy, and equally small. It was a shorthand that he had invented himself, and only he could read it. Useful, when jotting things down at a crime scene, or in the lab.

As he watched the comings and goings of the cast, part of Adam's mind split off and began to follow the play as well. He liked the rise and fall of the words, so old fashioned, and yet so vital. The actors gave them life, and meaning. Much to his surprise, Adam found that he could tell exactly what was going on. It was something of a revelation, and it filled him with glee.

The greatest shock of all was Nathan Howell.

From the moment that he stepped onto the stage, the obnoxious young man became someone entirely different. It was more than acting; it was a physical transformation. His whole face softened and he seemed to grow taller, striding forth with confidence, and flair. Adam stared in astonishment. This was another man - beguiling, cheerful. Likeable, even. Stunned, he tried to combine the two. Lysander and Nathan. Angel and demon. Lover and drunken fool. It seemed impossible.

Forgetting to write for a while, he watched the scene with breathless fascination. Hermia and Lysander formed a secret plan to run away. Silently, Adam cheered them on. A second woman, Helena, joined them from the wings, brushing past with a swirl of perfume that brought back echoes of a darkened corridor, and a subtle threat. As the scene continued, Adam watched her making eyes at Nathan. The actor frowned, out of character at last. _There_ he was - the sullen drunkard, nursing a headache of monumental proportions - and yet, seconds later, the sweet and gentle Lysander was back. Adam's eyes grew wide. Such an act. No wonder the public were fooled.

Nathan had charm, when he chose to wield it.

With a sudden, guilty impulse, Adam scrawled a few more notes in Henry's script. As he did so, Hermia left the stage. Shortly after, her lover followed.

A shadow darkened Adam's page.

Looking up, he found himself confronted by Nathan.

The _real_ Nathan.

Red in the face and glaring down at him, with the stench of yesterday's whisky seeping from every pore.

_Help,_ thought Adam, looking around in dismay.

But no one was there.


	17. Chapter 17

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Seventeen**

_**"Thou shalt not from this grove**_

_**Till I torment thee for this injury."**_

On stage, Bottom and his friends were making plans for their own little play-within-a-play. Not once did they look in Adam's direction, as they ran through their lines with a great deal of hilarity.

No help there, then.

Ducking his head to avoid Nathan's angry gaze, Adam considered his options. Fight or flight? Neither seemed very appealing. Much as he would love to believe otherwise, Adam knew in his heart that last night's victory had been little more than a moment of wonderful luck. Nathan was drunk, after all, and his own punch had been fuelled by emotion. There was no way that he could duplicate his success. If he tackled the actor right now, he would end up flat on his back in the wings.

Or worse.

Flight, then? What would happen if he simply ran away?

No pain. But was pain really the problem?

In his mind, Mac's face appeared before him, full of disappointment. Behind him lurked Fliss.

An easy decision, then.

_I'm not a coward,_ Adam thought fiercely. He lifted his head. Strength may not be on his side, but there was one thing that he had in abundance, when he wasn't frozen by fear or self-doubt.

Time to use his wits.

Adam untied his tongue and squared up to Nathan.

"You know," he said, feigning politeness, "that was very good. Your performance, I mean. I enjoyed it. Tell me - which is the real you? That guy on stage, or... well, this?" With an air of innocence, he moved his hand in a sweeping gesture that took in all of Nathan's sweaty form, and his leering, brutish face.

Nathan opened his mouth to give a withering reply - and paused. His dark eyes narrowed, as he saw the trap that Adam had set for him.

"Why, you little..." Reaching out, his fingers closed around Adam's wrist. The grip was vindictive, but not unbearable. Adam flinched, but chose not to struggle.

"That's it?" he jeered. "The best you can do? With all of that fancy language at your disposal? Or can you only be clever when you're using someone else's words? What a shame..."

Nathan's cheeks burned with fury.

His hand twisted sharply. Tears sprang to Adam's eyes but he refused to cry out. No snap meant not broken. And not broken meant that he could still bear it.

"You're a bully," he said. "I hate bullies. They use violence to cover up their fear, and their stupidity."

Losing his head completely, Nathan swore a foul oath and punched his infuriating foe in the gut. Adam wrenched his arm away from the actor's grip and doubled over, clutching his stomach. "See... see what I mean?" he gasped.

A calm voice behind him was the first indication that his reckless plan had worked.

"Henry. Would you be so kind as to go and look for Mr. Howell's understudy? It appears that we shall be needing his services."

Peter Reynolds. Rowena's husband, and the King of the Fairies.

His cultured voice was smooth, but his face was full of concern, as he bent down and peered at Adam. "Are you alright?" he asked quietly.

Speech was still difficult so Adam nodded, full of relief. "F-fine," he managed.

"I haven't done anything wrong," Nathan protested. "He punched _me_, you know. Last night, in the bar."

"Sounds painful."

Adam snorted. He couldn't help himself. Straightening his body with an effort, he watched in growing awe as Peter Reynolds took over the battle of words that he had begun.

"It was assault," Nathan grumbled. "Completely unprovoked."

"According to you," Peter said. "I don't think you'll find a single person willing to back up your side of the story."

The actor stared at him in horror.

"What do you mean?"

Peter shrugged, and draped a casual arm around Adam's shoulder. "This young man was simply defending a woman's honour against a drunken lout."

"That's slander..." Nathan struggled to defend himself, even though it was obvious to all that his position was growing weaker and weaker by the second.

"No, actually, that's fact." Reynolds gave a broad smile, made all the more outrageous by his startling make-up. "Much like the _fact_ that you just assaulted a member of the New York City Crime Lab. Unprovoked, as you put it. Here in the theatre, whilst he was trying to do his job. Nice move, Nathan."

"He insulted me," the actor muttered. Behind him, on the stage, the scene had shuddered to a halt. An audience was gathering around them. Adam flushed, as guilt washed over him. So many consequences...

"You poor man." Peter's voice held just the right amount of scorn. "There are rules about fighting in this theatre. I'm afraid you've broken them. Collect your street clothes, and leave your costume behind. We're done here."

"You don't have the right..."

"Oh - but I think you'll find that I do. I'm a silent partner in this production, _and_ the Prestige. Ask Ms. Anwar."

With a final, dismissive shrug, he lifted his arm from Adam's shoulder and turned his back on Nathan Howell. A round of applause broke out, as the bully shoved his way past everyone and disappeared from sight.

"Sorry." Peter's regret seemed genuine. "Nathan's a brilliant actor, but a poor excuse for a man. It was only a matter of time before someone forced his hand. That _was_ your plan, I take it?"

Adam nodded, swollen with shame.

"I shouldn't have done it," he admitted. "But he wouldn't leave me alone. Not since yesterday. And as for last night... Well, Fliss..."

Peter held up his hand in a sign of peace, making the stammered confession unnecessary.

"I know. The things we do for love..." He smiled, as Henry slipped through the crowd and returned to his side.

"Jack's on his way. He seemed pretty pleased. But Peter - I've got another message for you. That Detective Taylor. He wants to see you, right now. In Rowena's dressing room..." The boy looked frightened. Sweat was pooling in the cracks of his make-up; beneath his eyes and across his high, clever forehead. Adam stared at him in surprise - and then at Peter, his bold defender, just in time to catch the hunted expression that flashed across his face.

"Why?"

"He never said. But something's wrong, I'm sure of it. I think he wants to question you some more..."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Mac frowned when he saw the trail of people that had followed Peter Reynolds from the wings. At the back, he spotted Adam, who was looking even more flustered than usual. Aware that some of the blame for that could be placed at his own feet, Mac pretended not to notice the younger man. Instead, he waved Peter into the room and closed the door behind them.

Now they were alone.

In a state of honest shock, the actor gazed at the scene of devastation. Mac watched him closely.

"What happened here?" Peter asked.

"You tell me." Mac's eyes were stern. "Torn roses and a missing couch. Seems that you lied yesterday. Or maybe you just didn't know. Rowena _had_ a lover."

"No."

Peter's whole body drooped in resignation. Only his voice remained firm.

"No?"

"No. I never lied. I just..."

Mac waited.

"I left something out. It was me, all right? I was the one. Rowena knew nothing about it. At least... Oh, God! I hope she never found out. It would have killed her..."

White-faced beneath the paint, he heard his own words and closed his eyes in dismay at the implication.

"Tell me," said Mac. "How long?"

"Ten years," said Peter.

"Ten _years_?"

"It was... a mistake. But one that I couldn't get out of. I tried, believe me. But there was... a complication."

Excuses were easy. Mac felt little sympathy for this broken man - just a vague sense of disappointment. "Tell me her name," he demanded.

So Peter told him.

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**A/N: I hope you're all having a wonderful Christmas. I want to say an enormous 'thank you' to all those who continue to review (you're fantastic!), and to Lily Moonlight for her editing suggestions. Next installment will be after the weekend. See you then, I hope!**


	18. Chapter 18

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Eighteen**

_**"What? Should I hurt her, strike her, kill her dead?**_

_**Although I hate her, I'll not harm her so."**_

"What's that?" Sheldon asked, pointing to a nearby screen.

"Side project. Tell you later." Lindsay tried, and failed, to look innocent.

"Oh, really?"

She could tell that his curiosity was piqued. Unfortunately, Stella was on the horizon, propelling herself down the corridor with reckless speed.

"I knew she wouldn't stay trapped in that office for long," said Lindsay quietly. The look upon Stella's face was that of an animal which had finally broken free of its captivity - triumphant, but also a little nervous.

"And now I owe Danny ten bucks," Sheldon sighed.

"Betting at work? Really, Sheldon." Lindsay's voice was prim, but there was a twinkle in her eye. Turning round, she greeted her colleague. "Hello, Stella. Nice to see you up and about."

"Thanks." Stella had the grace to look sheepish, as though she knew exactly what they had been saying about her. "I'm not very good at staying put, I'm afraid. But that doesn't stop me being a prisoner in this lab - so I need one of you to do me a favour."

"Name it," said Sheldon, stepping forward; her own gallant knight. Stella grinned.

"It's quite a challenge," she warned him.

He laughed. "I'm ready. Decomp? Meat puzzle? Room full of broken glass to reconstruct?"

"Lawyer."

"_Lawyer?_"

"The only clue that I have left." A fleeting memory of pain filled Stella's eyes for a moment and then slipped away. Lindsay saw it, but chose to say nothing. "My attacker took the evidence that I had collected - the swabs, the fan mail, everything... But there was also a note. Rowena was going to visit her lawyer after the play had finished its run. Monday. 3pm." She frowned. "I called the man this morning. Herbert Stanley is his name. He was... uncooperative."

"I get the picture." Sheldon rubbed his palms together with gleeful anticipation. "Leave it to me.

Stella jumped, as her cell phone went off in her pocket. She moved away to answer it.

"Guess that leaves me and my _hand_iwork," sighed Lindsay. With painstaking care, she had built up the missing ridges and formed a useable set of prints. All conjecture, of course - but maybe, just maybe, one of them would find its twin in the database of exemplars that Adam had created yesterday on his return from the theatre.

She watched the possibilities fly past on the screen, her heart sinking further with each failed match.

And then, suddenly, there it was.

"I did it," she gasped, full of pride that her efforts had all been worth it in the end. This was the feeling; the sense of satisfaction that made her love her job. Hard work well done, and another mystery solved. Smiling, she peered at the name. "I know who pushed you..."

"Yasmin Anwar."

Stella's phone snapped shut. With fire in her soul, she glared at Lindsay.

"How did you..?" Lindsay gave a fatalistic shrug. So much for pride. "Never mind. I'm guessing that was Mac? Who is Yasmin Anwar?"

"She runs the Prestige Theatre. A poisonous creature, if ever I saw one."

Startled by her colleague's bitter reaction, Lindsay glanced at the bruises on her arms - and understood.

"So why did she push you downstairs?"

"That," Stella growled, "is exactly what I intend to ask her."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"No," Don said. "No way."

With Lindsay's noble assistance, Stella had made it as far as the precinct. Mac could shout at her later - she didn't care. At this moment in time, Don was the only one who stood between her and the woman who had almost killed her. Over what? A bag full of evidence? "Come on, Flack! Surely I have the right to question her myself? Don't tell me you wouldn't do the same in my position."

"Yes - and I'd be wrong too. Look at you, Stella. Wound up, and hopping mad. No pun intended," Don said hastily. "You're a mess. I'll handle the interview. You and Lindsay can watch from behind the glass. No more fighting, okay?" He held up his hand, and matched her steely gaze with one of his own.

All of a sudden, Stella felt exhausted. It was a weariness that had nothing to do with her injuries, and everything to do with the maelstrom that was raging inside her head. _Too much,_ she thought. _It's all too much..._ Her anger drained away, leaving her with nothing but a dull sense of confusion. "Fine," she said quietly. "Come on, Lindsay." In a voice that was oddly forlorn, she made one final request. "Don't let me down. Please, Don?"

"Stella, you know I won't."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Yasmin Anwar's face was unnaturally calm as she sat at the table and stared across at Detective Flack. Her hands lay at rest on the pitted wood, palms down and fingers perfectly still. There was blood red varnish on her nails. _Fitting, _Stella thought from her secret position behind the two-way mirror.

"Men." Yasmin shook her head. "No grace under pressure."

"Meaning, of course, Peter Reynolds," Flack offered. "Rowena's husband. Your lover."

"Yes," she agreed politely. "Meaning him."

Flack seemed unimpressed. "Ten years is a long time. Nice to know you hold your 'partner' in such high regard."

"I loathed him." Yasmin studied her nails. "But he was the father of my child. Every now and then, I felt it necessary to remind him of his... commitment. Keep him in line, so to speak. I have rights, and so does my son."

"Which is why you made him do the nasty on Rowena's couch? In Rowena's dressing room? For blackmail purposes." Flack looked suitably disgusted. Yasmin's dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

"Yes."

"Bitch," Stella hissed. The sound was a harsh one, even to her own ears. Beside her, Lindsay looked uncomfortable.

"Is something the matter?" she asked quietly.

"I'm fine." Stella's brief reply was all that she could manage. Right now, the ability to explain her feelings lay far beyond her reach. Still, Lindsay persisted.

"Look. Tell me if it's none of my business... but are you and Mac okay? You seem a little... odd lately. No offense."

"I..." How _could_ she answer? If Lindsay, mired as she was in the aftermath of her own dreadful trauma, could see that something was wrong... _Well, that can't be good,_ Stella thought bleakly. "It's... not a problem. Not exactly, Lindsay. Thank you for asking. But we've... well, we've sorted it out."

_Have we?_ her conscience demanded hotly. Stella closed her eyes. Now wasn't the time.

"You care for him," Lindsay murmured.

Her eyes flew open.

"You know?"

"Stella. I'm a woman. And I'm your friend. Of course I know." Lindsay gave a warm, encouraging smile. "What I can't decide is, whether or not he cares for you in return. Mac's such a mystery, sometimes."

"He does." Stella's voice was cool, but her cheeks were burning. "He told me so last night."

Lindsay nodded. Without another word, she turned her attention back to the window. Stella breathed out slowly. It felt as though she were exhaling all of her worries; every single one that had been tormenting her over the past few days. No, weeks. Or was it months?

_That long?_ she thought.

No wonder she felt tired.

"What now?" Lindsay asked, suddenly.

"I don't know," Stella said. _I just don't know..._

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So far, Don had learned one important fact. He truly detested Yasmin Anwar. People like her really made his blood boil. So cool and... relentless. Yes, that was the word. The tight rein that she kept on herself formed an impenetrable wall. He couldn't break through - but, in the end, there was no need. Yasmin answered every question that he put to her. She was proud of her actions. Don felt dumbfounded.

"You watched Detective Bonasera?"

"Yes."

"You saw her taking samples from the couch."

"I did."

Yasmin played with the locket around her neck. There was a condescending smile upon her perfect lips. Don wanted to yank the comb from her silly hair and stick her with it. Somewhere painful. Just to get a reaction...

_Stop it,_ he told himself, firmly. No need to be an ass. Clearly, Yasmin was trying to get a rise out of him. Why give her the satisfaction?

Grace under pressure.

"You hid in the shadows till she passed you. Then..."

"Then I pushed her down the stairs."

Don could imagine Stella's face through the two-way mirror. Disbelief, mingled with absolute fury. Yasmin's tone was helpful - pleasant, even. She simply didn't care.

"Did you want to kill her?"

"Of course not. Why would I? I don't know her. All I wanted was the evidence. My relationship with Peter was nobody's business but my own. It certainly had nothing to do with this ridiculous murder."

"Says you." Don eyed her carefully. Now they were coming to the crux of the matter.

"I do say so." Yasmin folded her fingers into a tightly woven basket - the first true sign of stress that he had seen from her since entering the room. "What possible motive would I have for killing Rowena?"

"Oh, I don't know - how about the fact that you were banging her husband? That you have a child together? That you've been his mistress for the past ten years?" Even as he said it, Don could scarcely believe it. Peter Reynolds had seemed like such an intelligent man.

People would never cease to amaze him.

"Detective. Let me make one thing perfectly clear. Yes, I hated Rowena. Plenty of people did, as a matter of fact. She was a stuck-up, sanctimonious prig with more secrets than my son has hairs on his head. Did I kill her? Absolutely not. It isn't my way. I like control, not chaos. Surely you can see that?"

Unfortunately, he could. Yasmin's words were full of conviction. Crazy, but truthful. _Damn._

He could arrest her for the assault on Stella. That gave Don a moment of gleeful satisfaction. But murder? Without any proof?

_Looks like we're back at square one,_ he sighed, sharing a rueful glance with the two-way mirror.

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**A/N: Hope you liked it! Thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter - I really enjoyed your comments. And once again, thank you to Lily for her helpful editing suggestions.**


	19. Chapter 19

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Nineteen**

_**"It is not enough to speak, but to speak true."**_

"I was lonely."

Once again, the dress rehearsal had shuddered to a temporary halt. Peter Reynolds sat with Mac in a quiet corner of the auditorium.

"It's not an excuse," he continued, as Mac remained impassive. "Simply an explanation." Beneath his heavy make-up, Peter's face was full of grief. And something more - a furtive sense of shame that weighed upon his brow and kept his eyes averted.

"Take your time."

Peter nodded gratefully.

"Ten years ago," he began in a low voice, "Rowena was at the height of her popularity. Movie after movie - it was a dazzling time for her. I won't say it went to her head, but she certainly embraced the lifestyle." Pausing, he shook his head. "One of those movies was being filmed in Australia. Rowena left us on our own for five long months, after three months in London and two in Vancouver before that. Henry was nine at the time. He wasn't the only one who missed her deeply..."

"What about your work?"

"My work? My work was put on hold, whilst I cared for the boy. A few plays, here in the city. Some voice-overs. Bit parts..." Peter lifted his eyes at last. "I answered her fan mail and signed her photographs. It was... humiliating."

"You resented her?"

"Not really. I wanted to be pleased for her. My jealousy was my own failing. I hid it from Henry, and from the rest of the world. Most of all, I hid it from Rowena. Until..."

"Until you met Yasmin Anwar."

Peter's laugh was short, and cold. "She saw right through me. Guessed the truth and used it to get exactly what she wanted. She played me, Detective. I was an easy mark. A lonely man, in need of some affection. Yasmin can be... appealing, when she wants to be. As I told you, it's not an excuse. It's merely the truth."

"Do you mean to say that..." Mac searched for the right phrase, trying to understand. "...that she _chose_ you to be the father of her child? Knowing that you were married to Rowena?"

"I suspected as much, for a long time." Peter shrugged. "In the end, she admitted it freely. Threw it in my face, actually. Two nights ago, in Rowena's dressing room."

"Before or after you made love on Rowena's couch?" Mac said drily. He wanted to feel pity for this man, but something held him back - a deep suspicion that lurked at the back of his mind, and made him wary.

"After." Peter had the grace to look ashamed. "The 'love-making', as you call it, was a sort of... binding ritual, if you like. Two or three times a year. To refuse would bring about the downfall of everything I hold dear." He swallowed. "But this time... This time, I had had enough. That one final act, performed in my wife's own sanctuary, made me realise how sickened I was by the whole affair. Better to take my chances with Rowena. That's what I told Yasmin, in the end."

"And how did that go?"

"Not well," Peter sighed. "Yasmin is proud of her self-control. But beneath the ice, there's a torrent, Detective. Believe me, I've seen it. So have you."

"The roses," Mac guessed.

Peter nodded. "Last night, after your people had left the theatre, I spoke with Henry. I told him that I felt it was time to leave New York. I've taken a role in England - a television series. Good, steady work. Henry agreed. Next, I confronted Yasmin. I offered her full child support, and a chance to buy out my share in the Prestige. I don't belong here any more, and I won't be coming back."

"How did she take it?" Mac didn't really need to ask. He had seen all he needed to see of Yasmin Anwar's true character, in the hateful expression that had crossed her face when Don had arrived to take her away, half an hour ago.

"She was... less than pleased. I can only imagine what happened next. I took Henry and left the theatre. No doubt she chose to take out her... frustration on Rowena's dressing room." Peter gave Mac a sideways, penitent look. "I understand from what you tell me that it was also Yasmin who pushed your colleague down the stairs. I can only apologise for my part in what happened. Is she all right - Detective Bonasera?"

"She'll live." Mac's tone was grim, but he gave a tight nod in gratitude for Peter's honest concern. "And I doubt that she blames you in any way. Ms. Anwar's actions are her own responsibility."

Peter accepted the nod, and Mac's words, with evident relief. "Am I free to go, Detective?"

"For now. We still have a murder to solve."

"Of course." Peter rose to his feet in a rustle of fabric. "Will this...? I'm sorry - will the press be informed of the things that I've just told you?"

"I won't be telling them." Looking up, Mac studied the man's face keenly. "Beyond that, I'm afraid I can't make any promises. The media is what it is. You know that, Mr. Reynolds."

"I do," sighed the actor. "Believe me. Thank you, Detective Taylor. For your discretion - and for listening. I've spent my whole life delivering other people's lines. It's a strange kind of freedom to speak the truth at last."

_The truth. _Watching Peter shuffle past the row of empty seats, Mac found his thoughts returning, once again, to Stella...

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Nathan's final blow had been a fierce one. Climbing his second flight of stairs, Adam felt a twisting pain in his gut that filled him with alarm and made him pause. He clutched his hand to his side and took several steadying breaths. As he did so, the pain subsided, leaving only a slight dull ache. _Just a stitch, then,_ he told himself, continuing on his way. Why did he always have to assume the worst?

Tired of feeling ill at ease, Adam lifted his head. The thought of where he was going brought a tiny smile to his lips. In the midst of all the confusion backstage, he had stolen the chance to slip away and search for the one person in this ridiculous place who would truly be pleased to see him.

It was instinct that made him look for Fliss in the 'Rat's Nest'. That, and a yearning desire to be somewhere quiet; somewhere far away from all of the fuss and the noise stirred up by his final round with Nathan. Mac had seen him in the crowd, he knew - but he wasn't ready to face his boss quite yet. First, he needed to be with someone who would give him the strength for that encounter.

He hoped with all his heart that she would be there.

Reaching the door at last, Adam halted, his hand outstretched. He could hear the murmur of voices on the other side; low and intense. One was Fliss, he could tell. The other was older, and more nasal. This second woman seemed to be doing most of the talking. As he listened nervously, he realised that her voice was growing louder. Suddenly, the door burst open, slamming hard against the wall and narrowly missing his arm. Adam sprang back, and stumbled on the stairs.

"Oh - sorry!" he gasped, out of instinct. The woman regarded him thoughtfully. She was grey-haired, with laughing eyes and a crooked smile.

"This him?" she called back into the room.

Fliss joined her at the door, looking guilty. "Hi, Adam," she said.

"Adam," the woman echoed. She gave Fliss a meaningful nudge. "Go on, then. Introduce me."

Adam laughed. He couldn't help it. Sweeping her a mock bow that was slightly more uncomfortable than he had expected, he gave her a glimpse of his brightest smile. She was warm and friendly, and he liked her. "Good morning," he said. "I'm Adam Ross. Clearly, Fliss has told you all about me."

The woman extended her hand. Adam shook it solemnly. "Ann Hart," she offered. "Wardrobe mistress, and insatiable busybody."

"She wormed it out of me," Fliss added, looking slightly desperate. He hastened to reassure her.

"Hey - I work with Mac Taylor. I know what it's like. One look from him every morning and I have this ridiculous urge to spill my guts. Everything from the contents of my locker to the intimate details of... well, you know." A nudge of guilt made him stumble. _Everything but my little adventure last night..._

Ann patted his arm and set off down the stairs. "I'll leave you two alone, then," she called out, over her shoulder. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"I _know_ what you'd do," Fliss grinned with relief. "So that's not much of a guideline."

A wicked laugh floated back up the stairwell as the wardrobe mistress disappeared around the corner.

"She's nice," Adam said.

"She's a menace." Fliss rolled her eyes. "Come on in. And mind the mess. We're altering costumes for Titania's understudy. And now, I believe, we have to do the same for Lysander?" The wary look upon her face belied the humour in her tone. "Are you okay?"

_So many answers to that question._ Adam sighed.

"I'm fine," he told her.

"Liar." She raised her hands and curved them gently behind his head, pulling him closer.

"Don't insult me when I'm trying to be all noble and manly," he whispered back.

"You don't need to '_try'_. Not after last night. No one has ever done anything like that for me before." With a strange half-laugh, she pressed her lips against his, cutting off any further attempts to speak.

Adam gave himself up to her tender kiss. Here was the sense of belonging that he had been searching for. Her arms were his home, and he clung to her as though he could not bear to let go. In response, she moved closer. Adam gave a muffled squeak of pain.

"Oh - what?" she cried, pulling back.

He shook his head, but there was a tell-tale look in his eye, and an awkward tilt to his body. Fliss frowned.

"He hit me," Adam confessed, turning red. "But it's nothing to worry about."

"Let me see." _Where?_ asked her face, and he pointed. Fliss raised his shirt, as gently as she could. Her shocked expression said it all. Adam gulped.

"That bad?" he sighed, peering down and trying to see it for himself. He reached out to prod with his fingers, and she slapped his hand away.

"It's a nasty bruise. The size of a fist," she added angrily. "Oh, how I hate that man."

"He's gone now," Adam told her. Enough of this. He yanked his shirt back down, hiding the shameful mark, and grasped her arms firmly. "I'm fine," he repeated, with far more conviction this time. "It'll fade. I came to see you, not a nurse."

His blue eyes were utterly compelling. He held her in his spell at last. She smiled, and moved in closer.

For a time, there was nothing more to be said. The world receded, and they were alone, lost in each other, and happy.

But all good things must come to an end - and the guilt was waiting for him, when he came back to himself.

Not even Fliss could hold it at bay any longer.

_Time to find Mac._

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**A/N: Happy New Year to every kind person who is following this story! I hope that you enjoyed the update. Thank you, as always, to those who reviewed the last chapter. It was very satisfying to deal with Yasmin Anwar at last, and I'm glad that you all felt the same way.**


	20. Chapter 20

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty**

_**"Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity**_

_**In least speak most, to my capacity."**_

Mac remained in his seat after Peter had gone. The stalls were dark, and no one took much notice of the silent figure, lost in thought.

_Choices._

That was what it all came down to, in the end. One moment in time, and one decision that could change your life. Dislodging a tiny stone that could start an avalanche.

Peter's tale was sad; no doubt about that. Like a heartless feral creature, Yasmin had fixed him in her sight and stalked him, bringing him down with ease.

But the choice had been his.

To sleep with another woman. To betray his wife's trust, in her absence. Mac knew - God, how he knew - what loneliness felt like. It gnawed at you, peeling the layers away and leaving your soul exposed. A terrible, aching way to live. A curse. But not an excuse. The actor also knew that; and his sense of guilt was his punishment.

Given the choice, would Peter make the same mistake again?

And was it really Peter's choice that bothered him so much?

Mac frowned in the darkness.

_So many years, _he thought.

Why had they waited so long to speak the truth?

Stella's instinct was calling her away. The thought of losing her had been a devastating blow, made worse by the fact that she had made her plans in secret. Last night... Last night had given him hope. Their honesty had broken through the wall of doubt between them and he felt cleaner than he had for a long time. In the light of a new day, however, the old fears crept back to disturb him. Stella yearned for a new life - and what right did _he_ have to chain her to the old one? To a grumpy workaholic. A lonely man... Was he just being selfish?

He knew Stella well enough to be certain that she would want to choose her fate. She was strong, and full of passion - a trait that he envied. But they were in this together now, come what may - and he needed to know his own mind before he was swayed by her vibrant will.

Reckless need, or rational thought?

Desire, or loneliness?

_Enough._

This was neither the time, nor the place. A gentle strain of fairy music brought him back to the real world, and his surroundings. Startled, he rose from his seat.

How long had he been sitting there?

The play had resumed, and the Fairy King was now on stage, making plans with his servant, Puck, to manipulate love and desire in order to get his own way. To take the changeling boy away from the Queen.

Mac pondered. A new thought was stirring in his brain.

He was just about to follow down its path when he noticed a quiet figure standing nearby. Adam hovered at the end of the row, clearly waiting for Mac to look his way and acknowledge his presence.

"Hey, boss," he murmured.

_What now?_ Mac thought, with a sigh. There was something in Adam's wary posture - a sign of trouble to come. _I don't need this..._

He pushed his way to the aisle, and confronted the younger man.

"Adam?"

"Yes. Um - okay. The thing is, boss, I need to tell you... I did something stupid. More than one something, in fact. And I'm pretty sure that you're going to be mad..."

"Don't second guess me," Mac said. "Tell me the facts."

"Oh." In the dim light, he could have sworn he saw a look of surprise flit across Adam's face.

They moved to a shadowy corner. Adam's fingers twisted around the battered roll of pages in his left hand. His right hand gestured freely, as it often did when he spoke. Mac watched it, fascinated, even as he listened to the rush of words that spilled from Adam's mouth.

"Last night, after work... I came back, okay, and went to a bar with Fliss. You remember Fliss?" he added, nervously. "She asked me, and at first I said no, 'cos I thought - well, she might be a suspect. But then I said yes. Because... because I wanted to. I like her," Adam said, with heartfelt honesty. Mac said nothing. So far, it was a minor issue. More was to come, he suspected.

"Well... okay, we were in the bar. Marlowe's, near the theatre. And this actor was being a jerk. He'd threatened me twice already, and now he was being unkind to Fliss..."

"Go on." Mac frowned.

"There was a fight," Adam said.

"And he hit you?"

"Um - no." Was that a hint of a smile? Hovering on his lips? "I hit him. He came at me first, boss, I promise. But I... well, I knocked him out." Adam's bright gaze reflected the wild emotion that must have gripped him at the time. Mac raised his eyebrows.

"Go on," he said, sensing more.

"We came back to the theatre and..." Adam faltered. "I guess you could say we hung out for a while. Nothing heavy," he added hastily. "It's just that... she's fun to be with, Mac. This morning, at the lab, I thought about telling you. I should have done it straight away, I know. But I didn't - and then things kept getting in the way. That woman... and Nathan..."

"What about Nathan?"

"He's the actor. The one I... The one who was rude to Fliss. We kind of had a 'thing' backstage..."

"Another fight?" Mac guessed. Clearly, the man was spending far too much time with Danny.

"I got him fired," Adam said in a small voice.

Silence.

Mac was stunned.

How had he missed so much? Adam was an open book - but only if you took the time to read him.

_I'm at fault,_ he thought, as he saw the most important thing that was missing from Adam's story.

The thing that had changed the lab tech's mind in the first place.

Mac felt a surge of respect for the younger man. Not once had he brought up the fact that Mac himself had been unduly harsh with him back at the lab, in front of Stella, and everyone else. The omission was glaring, if you thought it through.

A stone, that started an avalanche...

_Choices..._

The anger was there, deep down, but somehow he just couldn't bring himself to summon it.

"Tell me," he said. "Would you do the same again?"

"What?" Adam froze. The question was a strange one, given the circumstances.

"Knowing what happened. And your responsibilities. Would you do it again?"

Adam's eyes were serious.

"Yes. She's worth the risk," he added, in a calm voice quite unlike his own.

And strangely, Mac was moved.

There it was. The answer to his question. From the lips of a nervous, indecisive lab tech who would never dare to be so bold unless he felt it deeply.

"Thank you, Adam," Mac said. "I appreciate your honesty. I'll have to remove you from this case - but you know that."

"Yes." Adam dropped his gaze, but not so low that Mac couldn't spot the relief in his wide blue eyes.

"Call Danny. Tell him to get here as soon as he can. After that, you're suspended. Two days. That should be enough time for some serious... reflection."

Adam looked up in surprise. Mac gave an enigmatic smile.

"And next time, think before you act, all right?"

_But not too much..._

The young man nodded breathlessly. Reaching for his phone, he turned to leave. Mac watched him, full of unexpected gratitude.

_Thank you, Adam..._

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**A/N: A complex chapter, but a fun one to write in the end. I hope that you enjoyed reading it too. Thanks, as always, to Lily Moonlight for looking it over and making some invaluable suggestions. And thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter - not to mention Mahala, who ploughed through about 6 in one go and stopped to make comments on all of them! Now I've gone over 100! Yippeeee!**


	21. Chapter 21

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty One**

_**"If you have any pity, grace or manners,**_

_**You would not make me such an argument."**_

The law firm of Stanley and Kempe was a cold stone tomb. Even the lobby felt like a vault, filled with disapproving marble faces. Victims, perhaps, of their own unsuccessful suits. A warning to all who would take on the law: beware! we offer no guarantee. Think long and hard before you pass these doors.

"Lovely, isn't it?" the receptionist said. She was a bright soul, forced into a dull black suit; an angel at a funeral.

Sheldon nodded. "Very atmospheric. Get a lot of clients, do you?"

Shaking her golden curls, the girl gave a tinkling laugh. "Of course we do. The law isn't cheerful, Mr. Hawkes. Serious business needs serious decor." She winked, and he grinned at the humour behind her words.

"Can't think how they came to hire you, then," he quipped. "And it's 'Doctor', by the way."

Her blue eyes flashed with respect... and something else.

"Like a surgeon?" she asked, hopefully.

_Same old question._ "Not any more," Hawkes said. "These days, my clients are a little more... passive. I speak on behalf of the dead. Serious business," he added.

The receptionist gave a merry shrug. "Sounds grim. So then, what can I do for you and your 'passive' clients, _Doctor_ Hawkes?"

Sheldon checked the name that he had scribbled down in his notebook. "I need to meet with Herbert Stanley. My colleague called him earlier this morning. He'll know what it's about. Just tell him that someone from the crime lab is here to see him."

"Oh. Him." The look on the girl's face gave Sheldon a deep sense of foreboding. "Are you sure? Mr. Kempe is far more obliging."

"No doubt. But the information I need is case specific. Mr. Stanley is the only one who can help me."

"Help you..." She echoed his words, as her polished nail caught the edge of the button on her intercom. A delicate action, to match the delicate note that crept into her voice when Herbert Stanley answered. "Pardon me for interrupting, sir, but there's a gentleman here who wishes to speak with you. He says he's expected..."

Hissing over the intercom, Stanley's words were indistinct, but his meaning was clear.

"I'm sorry, sir. That's what he told me. From the crime lab. He says that his colleague rang ahead."

Another burst of urgent hissing. Sheldon waited patiently, then pulled out his trump card.

"I have a warrant," he said.

The girl was filled with delight. "Mr. Stanley," she relayed, in cool, clear tones, "I'm afraid we can't refuse. The gentleman has a warrant. I'm looking right at it."

Silence.

Sharing a broad smile, they waited for Stanley to admit defeat.

"Send him in," said a brittle voice, with perfect clarity.

"Thank you, sir." The receptionist moved her fingernail, breaking contact. The same hand waved Sheldon towards a marble staircase at the other end of the lobby. "Up you go then. First door on the right, once you reach the top. Good luck, Doctor Hawkes."

"Thank you," he mouthed, as he left.

The stairs were broad at the bottom and swept to a narrow pinnacle. In keeping with their surroundings, they were cold and white, with the barest strip of carpet running down the middle; dark and red, like a trickle of blood. Sheldon was not easily unnerved, but this place was starting to give him the creeps. Even the autopsy suite was festive in comparison. The _old_ suite. The one with all the gothic appeal of Dr. Frankenstein's lab.

_Oh, come on,_ Sheldon told himself firmly, as he reached the top of the staircase. _You're a scientist. Stop letting your imagination run away with you. _This was a lawyer_. _In a lawyer's office. Decor meant nothing, in the end. _It's all for show - like the Wizard of Oz,_ he thought, clinging on to his warrant, nevertheless, like a lucky talisman.

Herbert Stanley's door, when he came to it, held one more surprise. An old brass knocker, shaped like a fox's head, complete with lolling tongue. It was out of place, and ugly. Sheldon grasped it with distaste, and tapped it once against the varnished wood.

"Enter," said the same thin voice that had spoken over the intercom.

He half-expected the door to creak when he opened it. And a row of Victorian clerks, perhaps, with scratching pens and lowered heads. The crackle of a fire, and the ticking of a grandfather clock.

Instead, there was silence. Heavy blinds, and an even heavier desk, weighed down with files, and papers, and books.

"Name?" said Herbert Stanley, through the gloom.

Sheldon peered at the shadowy figure. He was stick thin, and dry as dust.

"Dr. Sheldon Hawkes. From the crime lab. You spoke to my colleague, Detective Bonasera."

"I did." The lawyer made a bony arch of his long, pale fingers. "And I told her exactly the same thing that I am about to tell you. The privacy of our clients here at Stanley and Kempe is sacrosanct. Rowena May and her husband chose us for that very reason. No doubt - as a doctor - _you_ understand?"

"Of course," Hawkes agreed. "That goes without saying. But please - do me the favour of understanding my point of view in return. Rowena May has been murdered. The information that you hold may be the key to unlocking the identity of her killer. The judge who gave me this warrant agreed. No doubt - as a lawyer - you can see that the law is on my side?"

Stanley pursed his lips with sour distaste, and did not answer.

"I'm not asking for the contents of her will - not unless it becomes absolutely necessary," the doctor continued. "All we need to know is why she wanted to meet with you on Monday. There was a note on her dressing table at the theatre. Surely your code will allow that?"

With a creak of his chair, Stanley rose from behind his desk and moved to stand in front of Sheldon. He was tall, and would have been intimidating, were it not for a stoop which brought him down to the doctor's height after all. Sheldon held his piercing gaze with all the dignity that he could muster. "Well?"

The lawyer turned away. Clearly, there was a struggle going on inside the man, as a tiny spark of conscience strove to break through his natural clam-like reserve.

To Sheldon's great relief, it was conscience that won.

"To be perfectly truthful," Stanley admitted, at last, "I don't know the details myself. What little I know, I shall tell you, Doctor. But really, I doubt it will be of any practical value to your investigation."

"Thank you."

Together, they moved to a stiff leather couch and sat down. Sheldon perched on the edge. Stanley folded his long, thin frame with an awkward series of moves - rather like a music stand being dismantled - and tucked himself into the opposite corner.

The doctor waited patiently.

"Rowena May wished to change the terms of her will. Again." Stanley frowned, as though this were a regular and rather annoying occurrance.

"In what way?"

"I don't know. She mentioned something about a child."

"A child?"

This time, Stanley's face was non-committal. "Indeed. I can only assume that she wished to add this personage to her current set of bequests. We were going to discuss the details on Monday. I don't do business over the telephone, Dr. Hawkes. I prefer the personal touch."

There was no safe answer to that. Sheldon glanced around the room and bit his tongue to keep from smiling. "I see. Mr. Stanley, as a.. friend of the family - is there anything else that you feel you can tell me?"

"You're asking for gossip," the lawyer said, in a disapproving voice.

"Of course not. I'm a man of science. Facts are what I prefer."

"Very well, then." Mr. Stanley seemed to unbend a little upon hearing Sheldon's words. "Fact. Rowena May and her husband, Peter Reynolds, have been married for twenty three years. Their lives are utterly intertwined - in the legal sense, as well as..." He coughed. "... the romantic one. Fact. Her only other current beneficiary is her ward, Henry Kirk. Fact. She never gave me any reason to believe that she had another... partner. Therefore, I cannot confirm, or even speculate upon, the identity of this other child. I'm sorry," he added - and, to Sheldon's great surprise, he seemed to be sincere. "Rowena was a valued client, Doctor Hawkes. More than that. I liked her. It's a tragic loss."

"For your firm?" Hawkes said.

"For her family. They loved her dearly."

Sheldon rose, and reached out his hand. The lawyer took it. His fingers were icy cold.

"Thank you," Hawkes said. "For your time and for your information. If I need to contact you again...?"

"My door will be open."

Full of relief at the unexpected success of his mission, Sheldon left the room. As he closed the door softly behind him, the last thing he saw was Herbert Stanley dropping his pale face into his bony hands.

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**A/N: Hmm - I think that I had better add a disclaimer here. This is not meant to be a representation of all lawyers - just one single character. I was playing, and I had fun. So, if you happen to be a member (or future member) of the legal profession, please don't take offence (and forgive any legal errors I might have made, lol).**

**That being said, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter. It was a little change of pace, and a chance for Sheldon to make another appearance. Plus (of course) more information to keep you guessing. Have fun! And please review - I'd love to hear your thoughts ;D**


	22. Chapter 22

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Two**

_**"...But as yet, I swear,**_

_**I cannot truly say how I came here."**_

No doubt about it. Danny Messer loved his job.

One moment, he was working in the calm, sterile environment of the crime lab. The next, he was strolling into a world of fairy madness.

"This is some place, hey boss?" he said, as he gazed at the three-tiered seating and the colourful stage.

Mac had come to meet him at the back door of the theatre, guiding him safely through the bewildering network of corridors until they reached the auditorium.

"So, Adam didn't say much on the phone. What's goin' on? Why do you need me here?" Danny chuckled. "He in trouble or something?"

"I sent him home," Mac said.

Danny slowed his pace, and halted. That would explain it all right; the breathless, high-pitched quality of Adam's voice. "He okay?"

"He's not sick, if that's what you mean." Mac's face was impenetrable. "He can't work the case any more, that's all. Personal reasons."

A multitude of possibilities sprang into Danny's quick brain at this brief statement. Each one was more astonishing than the last. The sudden wrinkle of amusement in the corner of Mac's mouth provided him with his most telling clue. "Personal...? Oh!" Danny's eyebrows shot up as he made the connection. Surprised, and a little impressed, he grinned at Mac. "That's a delicate way of putting it. Guess he wasn't happy when you took him off the case though, right boss? Poor guy breaks into a sweat if you look at him cross-eyed."

"We had a civilised conversation. A _private _conversation," Mac said firmly.

_Sense the tone,_ Danny thought. Saving the rest of his dubious jokes for the lab tech's personal 'amusement', he changed the subject. Down to business. "Okay. Guess I'm Adam now. What do you need me to do?"

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Adam meant to go home. He really did. But Mac had the keys to the Avalanche, and it was a long walk to the nearest subway station. Standing all by himself in the foyer, he felt strangely dispossessed. _Nowhere to go, and nothing to do,_ he sighed, full of bewilderment. When the front door wouldn't budge, that was the final straw. With a groan of despair, Adam turned around and slumped against the glass. Now he would have to track his way back through the theatre yet again.

The theatre.

In less than two days, he had already lived through what felt like a lifetime of emotion in this place. As though he had been sleeping for the longest time - only to find, when he awoke, that the dream was real and all around him.

Adam frowned at the locked door behind him, as an irrational thought popped into his head.

The theatre didn't want him to leave.

_And I don't want to go,_ he realised.

It wasn't disobeying Mac, exactly. After all, he hadn't been _ordered_ to leave the premises. He was merely off the case, and out of work for a couple of days.

Time for reflection...

A curious choice of words, when you thought about it.

_I can reflect here, _Adam thought stubbornly. _Why not?_

Forbidding his brain to answer that particular question, he squared his shoulders and set off in search of a quiet place in order to do exactly as he had been told...

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Mac listened carefully to Danny's update, and then sent him backstage to gather samples of talcum powder from the various dressing rooms. He also gave him strict instructions. No more trouble. No more fights. Danny was startled but, wisely, chose not to comment. Watching him go, Mac couldn't resist a secret smile. Clearly, there was a grilling in Adam's not-too-distant future. And it wouldn't be his boss asking the questions.

Slipping into the wings, Mac adopted Adam's former occupation. Unlike the jittery lab tech, he was quiet, and discreet. Stagehands and performers moved around him, barely noting his presence. Mac watched them all with interest.

Oberon was back on stage by now, ordering Puck to undo the mischief that he had caused. The rapport between Peter and Henry was quite remarkable. For a moment, Mac lost sight of Rowena's murder, and his sympathy for their loss. The details of their real lives fell away, and two new creatures burst forth, golden and bright, like souls breaking free of their human shells. They spoke their lines with wit and passion, bringing the old words back to life. Mac felt an unexpected thrill of pleasure.

Henry, in particular, intrigued him. This was not a seasoned actor, like Peter Reynolds, or the rest of the cast. He was barely out of childhood. Yet he claimed the stage with a bold authority far beyond his years. Lithe of body and sharp of face, his style was physical and clever; full of subtle, bird-like movements that were enhanced by his long red hair and the dappled, skin-tight suit that showed off his slender form.

Mac could only imagine how proud Rowena must have felt of her ward. The boy was a natural.

Clearly, Peter claimed an equal share in that parental pride. There was a gleam in Oberon's eye that had nothing to do with the scene, and everything to do with the bond that existed between them.

A sudden, bitter pang of loss caught Mac by surprise. It was a vision of what might have been. Of his own child, raised in love by two devoted parents. Another world; another lifetime. Claire was gone, and he was all alone.

Except...

Except for hope.

He sighed and turned away, divorced from the play at last by the strength of his own emotion.

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Following nothing but instinct, Adam let his feet take him up and up - and _up_, until he could go no further. At the very top of the stairs, he found a door that led him out into the 'gods' - a sweeping gallery of seats that dropped away below him, ending in a gilded rail.

Vertigo claimed him, but he fought it bravely. No lights were on in this part of the theatre, and the darkness helped. Shifting his hand from one seat to the next, by way of support, he lurched down the steep aisle in a clumsy fashion until he reached the front row and gasped with relief.

There was nothing in front of him now but empty space. Far below, he saw the stage; a separate, glittering world. Tiny figures moved through the trees like puppets, their amplified voices carrying all the way up to his ears. Adam forced back yet another wave of dizziness and sat down on the nearest seat, tipping it down just in time for it to catch him as he landed.

Sinking into the plush velvet with a grateful sigh, he perched his feet on the rail, tucked his knees up against his chest and went back to watching the play. Even now, from this great height, it drew him in; compelling in a way that films or a television show could never be. In this world, there was a twist. At any moment, as in real life, things could change abruptly. A line could go wrong, or a cue could be missed. An actor could be murdered...

The memory of Titania, lying cold in her fairy bed, filled his mind as he watched her replacement struggle to make the role her own. The woman was good, he could tell. But something was missing. A charm, that no amount of study could ever duplicate. Filled with sadness, Adam lowered his head and mourned the loss of Rowena May.

Until an odd noise sent a prickle crawling down his spine.

At first, he couldn't place it. Keeping his head still, Adam tuned out the actors and tried to concentrate.

Yes. There it was again.

Not on the stage, or even down in the auditorium.

This noise was close, and far too personal.

The steady sound of breathing.

Right behind him.

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**A/N: Yes - a cliffie! Dun dun duhhhh! Well, I haven't had one for a while, so I hope that you can forgive me ;) More soon, and thank you for dropping by! Thanks to Lily Moonlight for looking this over before I posted it, and setting my mind at rest. And, as always, thank you to those who reviewed the last chapter. This story wouldn't be half as much fun to write without your helpful and encouraging comments. **


	23. Chapter 23

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

_**"And those things do best please me**_

_**That befall preposterously."**_

"I saw you," said a voice in Adam's ear. It was soft and low, and unfamiliar.

Adam sighed.

For one brief moment, he had dared to entertain the romantic notion that Fliss had somehow discovered his whereabouts and crept down the aisle to surprise him.

Adorable theatre girl, or lurking stranger. Adam knew which one he would rather meet in a dark and lonely place.

_Pity..._

The unpleasant odour of stale junk food drifted past his face. Whoever owned the creepy voice ate far too many hot dogs. Adam built up a careful picture in his mind of a shabby fellow, harmless and unhealthy. Keeping that image before him, he turned around in his seat.

Two eyes stared back at him, gleaming through the darkness. They belonged to a shadowy outline, which was far larger than the shape suggested by Adam's hopeful imagination.

"Down there. I saw you," the man repeated.

"Okay..." Adam gave a feeble grin. What else could he say? "That's nice."

"You were with that Detective. Taylor, isn't it? But you don't look much like a cop." The man's voice grew thoughtful. "Science geek, are you?"

This was tricky. Adam would be the first one to admit that caution really wasn't his strong suit.

And yet...

Perhaps it was the darkness, or the setting - or the truly bizarre set of circumstances that seemed to have taken control of his life in the past two days. Because right now, every nerve in his body was screaming at him to be cautious, and guard his tongue for once.

Adam fumbled to find the right words. Or any words, for that matter.

"Um..." he said. And then, more softly: "Yes."

The pale gleam narrowed as the stranger peered at him, like a wolf who has found a tasty little morsel.

"I thought so. What are you doing up here all alone in the dark, I wonder?"

"I could ask the same of you," Adam retorted, before he had time to think. He closed his mouth with a snap, startled by his own boldness.

The stranger seemed amused. "Fair question," he said. "I'm a spy."

"A _spy_?"

This time the stranger laughed out loud; a breathy, sarcastic _huff_. "A reporter, then, if you must know. The name's Philip Bacon - though most folk just call me Piggy. Charming, but sadly true." He paused, and continued to stare at Adam - waiting, the lab tech guessed, for some kind of awed response to his name.

Feeling under pressure, Adam made the universal noise of polite appreciation. "Oh..."

Piggy wasn't fooled. The laugh returned. "You've never heard of me, have you?"

"Okay, no." Adam sighed with relief. "Sorry. Are you famous?"

He could just make out the smirk on Piggy's face through the gloom. "Only in cultural circles."

There was a slur in there somewhere, and Adam felt it keenly. His wariness increased. "How long have you been here?"

"Two days, on and off." The reporter shrugged. "If you want the prize, you have to run the race."

_Oh, very original,_ Adam thought dryly. "That's odd," he said, out loud. "When I was here yesterday, I took the prints of everyone in this theatre. How come I never took yours?"

"Maybe I got here later." Piggy's voice was smooth, but his words were a lie. Both men knew it.

"And maybe you're hiding," Adam accused him. "Sneaking around... in order to get an exclusive story. About Rowena's murder."

"Yes," Piggy said, with alarming ease. "Got any tips?"

"I don't give out details of cases." Adam's voice was suddenly firm. The thought of Mac's face if he spilled the beans to a reporter, however accidentally, took the lab tech beyond the realm of nightmares and into the pit of his darkest fears.

_I may be stupid sometimes, _he thought, _but I'm not that stupid._

On the other hand, what if he could learn something in return?

A way back into Mac's good graces...

"You've already told me one thing." Piggy was quietly smug.

_Uh-oh._ "What's that?"

"You're in disgrace. Your boss sent you away."

"I never told you that!" To his embarrassment, Adam's voice grew squeaky with indignation.

"Yes, you did. With your body language. Down there, and up here. I told you - I've been watching you. And I'm good at what I do. Very good indeed."

"Who else were you watching?" Nonchalance was hard to achieve when Adam felt so nervous.

"Oh - so you _are_ an investigator after all. I was beginning to wonder." Piggy shrugged in the darkness. "The answer is simple. I watch everyone."

"And what do you see?"

For a time, the man was silent. Adam waited. Finally, Piggy leaned in even closer.

Could this be it? The key to unlocking the case? With a secret rush of excitement, Adam bit his lip.

To his great disappointment, however, Piggy's words were vague and annoyingly cryptic. "I see ambition with wings," he proclaimed, like a second-rate oracle. "I see deception, and blindness that forgives all wrongs. I see anger, and I see lust. I see broken hearts. I'm a spy in the night, and everyone's sins are meat to me."

_You're a fake,_ Adam thought, in disgust. _And you see nothing._

This was a waste of time.

"Okay. Well, thank you," he said politely, rising to his feet. The seat flew up with a loud bang, making his heart leap. Piggy chuckled.

"Use your head," he said. "Just think about it. People are an open book, if you learn how to read them. Especially you..."

_Another insult,_ Adam guessed. The smug reporter irked him more than he could ever express. Climbing the steps and leaving him behind felt like rising into clean, fresh air after stumbling through a dirty, smog-ridden valley. Yet still, all the way, he could feel the man's sharp eyes upon him, piercing his shoulder blades - and his innermost thoughts.

Adam shuddered, and quickened his pace.

At last, he reached the door that led back out of the gallery. Passing through, he took a deep breath of absolute relief and fished his cell phone from his pocket.

_I need Fliss,_ he thought.

The perfect antidote to such a sneaky specimen.

A smile began to stir upon his lips, as he keyed in the text that would make his world just that little bit brighter.

_'Hey, Fliss. Where R U? Can we meet 4 lunch? I'm starving. Adam.'_

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**A/N: Apologies to Crowded Angels - no Fliss in this one. Loved your guess, though! ;D**

**And Mahala? Challenge completed. Stanley, De Vere and Bacon, as you suggested. Can I have my final Smartie point now? I've eaten the rest... (Mmm, Smarties...)**

**Thanks to everyone who posted such entertaining and helpful reviews for the last chapter.**

**We're heading towards the end now, but there's plenty more to come. I've finally planned it out, and it should make about 30 chapters in total - my longest one yet :D**

**The next update will be at the weekend.**


	24. Chapter 24

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Four**

_**"The will of man is by his reason swayed."**_

Lindsay walked into the room and found Stella, sitting at her desk and staring at a piece of paper. At least, her eyes were bent in that direction. Lindsay couldn't answer for her brain. The woman's face was blank, as though her thoughts were a thousand miles away.

"Bad news?" Lindsay set her burden down with a thump. Three folders, full of report sheets and printouts. Lunchtime was going to be thrilling.

Stella jumped.

With a guilty air, she slid the paper out of sight. Lindsay pretended not to notice.

"Want to go for coffee? I could put this off a little longer, if you need a break," she offered. Really, Stella didn't look good. Her eyes were troubled, and the bruises on her arms were an ugly black by now.

Pushing a strand of hair behind her ears, Stella shook her head. "That's kind of you, Lindsay. But I'm fine. Just tired, I guess. Blame it on the medication. Painkillers always have that effect on me. I can't seem to gather my thoughts, and I feel as though I'm moving through mud."

"Sounds like Danny, first thing in the morning," Lindsay smirked. To her great relief, Stella returned the grin.

"Men," she said. "So predictable - and yet, at the same time, so complicated."

_Ah,_ Lindsay thought. "Have you heard from Mac?" she asked carefully.

"Last time I spoke to him was when he called to ask for Danny's help at the theatre. I'm not sure what Adam's gone and done, but Mac sent him home."

"I know. I had a text from Danny half an hour ago. Very mysterious." _But that's not what I meant,_ she added to herself.

"Poor Adam." Stella sighed. They shared a grin of sympathy for the hapless lab tech. Then Lindsay tried again. If subtlety wasn't going to work, there was nothing else for it but to be blunt.

"What's wrong?" she said. "You can tell me anything. You know that, right? I'm a very good listener." She put on her most appealing face, and waited, perched on the corner of the desk.

Indecision wrinkled Stella's forehead. Finally, she nodded. Sliding the piece of paper back out from its place of concealment beneath her in-tray, she sighed. "I've had an offer."

Lindsay's mind went blank. An offer? Slowly, Stella's meaning dawned on her. An offer of work. Another job.

Stella was leaving?

"Congratulations," she said in a voice that rang with false cheer. _Very convincing, Lindsay. Why not lie some more and tell her how happy you are?_ "Honestly, Stella. That's great. Um - where?"

"In New Orleans. The head of their crime lab is retiring next month. They want me to replace him. _Really _want me," Stella added, scanning the letter once more, as though she couldn't quite believe its contents. "This is the final confirmation."

"Head of your very own crime lab? Then you get to be Mac." Lindsay's quip was a desperate one, as she racked her brains for positive things to say. At the same time, deep within herself, she was struggling badly. _Stella, leaving..._

And then she saw it.

The reason why her friend looked so distraught.

"Mac's the problem, isn't he?" she said at last, dropping down from the desk and moving round to lay a gentle hand on Stella's shoulder.

"Yes." The answer was small, but full of emotion.

"Does he know? About the job?"

"Yes." Again, one word that signified so much.

"And what does he think?"

"I don't know." Stella shook her head. "What a mess. What would _you_ do?" she added suddenly, turning her face up to Lindsay with an hopeful expression.

Lindsay fought against her selfish need to keep her friends.. no, her family close. This wasn't about her, after all.

"If I were you?" she said. "I'd follow my instincts. Don't think too hard. Risks are part of life. But I will give you one piece of advice," she added. "Something that Danny and I both learned the hard way, before we were married."

"What's that?" Stella looked interested.

"Talk to each other. All the time. About everything. Problems are so much easier if you share them. Self-reliance is a lonely road. And shutting out people you love will only hurt them - and yourself." She gazed down at the colleague who had become one of her very best friends in the last few years.

With a look that said she understood far more than Lindsay was saying, Stella smiled back.

"Talk to Mac," said Lindsay, finally. "Make this decision together."

Stella nodded slowly.

"Thank you," she said. "I will..."

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Crouching down to rifle through a cupboard in Peter and Henry's dressing room, Danny felt a sudden twitch in his shoulder blades that meant someone was standing behind him.

He turned, and stared up at his boss with a comical look of frustration. Mac had crept up on him in his usual stealthy manner.

"Come on, Mac. You tryin' to give me a heart attack? Lindsay wouldn't thank you..."

Mac grinned. As usual, the humorous look in his eyes was the only response that he needed.

Chuckling, Danny rose to his feet and stretched his stiff legs in a move more suited to a ballet-dancing frog. Two years had passed since his injury, but he still felt the odd twinge now and then - not pain itself, but an echo that warned him when he was pushing himself too far.

"Find anything?" Mac asked.

"Depends on what you mean by anything." Danny's face was full of disgust. "More creams and oils and powders than a beauty parlour - and that's just the men! Not to mention make-up and glitter. _Glitter._" His face became shrewd. "Hey, Mac. You ever notice how Don seems to know an awful lot about this play?"

"No, Danny," Mac said calmly.

"No?"

"No, I'm not going to help you win your bet."

Danny gave a soft curse under his breath. "He got to you, didn't he?"

"Focus, Danny. On the case," his boss advised him. "Games are for recess."

"You just want to see me in tights," Danny grumbled.

Mac raised his eyebrows.

Sighing, Danny gave up and changed the subject. "So - how was the show?"

Before Mac could open his mouth to answer, the rapid sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor towards them. Slamming the door to one side with a flourish, Peter Reynolds burst into the room. His face was red, and full of anger. When he saw the two men standing in his private den, he glared in fury.

"Go away," he shouted. "Stop your spying. Haven't you seen enough? My wife is dead, and all you seem to do is poke and pry in dusty corners. What's the point?"

Danny pushed down the ball of irrational guilt that had risen up inside him. "I'm sorry for your loss," he said. "But sir, we do have a right to be here."

Peter turned away, unwilling to share his feelings with them any longer. They both stared at the back of his shoulders, uncertain how to proceed.

"Would you mind...?" he said, at last, in a quieter voice that was full of mixed emotions. _Grief,_ thought Danny. _Resignation._ And something stranger, that he couldn't put his finger on. Was that... disappointment? "I really need to be alone right now. Can't you come back later?"

Mac exchanged glances with Danny. "Are you done here?"

He nodded.

No other words were necessary. Peter had retreated into a corner of the room, as the two detectives headed for the door. It was Danny who passed into the corridor first - only to collide with the urgent, breathless figure of a young woman. Unlike most of the theatre folk that he had met so far, this one didn't have wings, or a crazy costume. _Thank goodness,_ Danny added silently. She was dressed in jeans and a loose, attractive blouse. Her dark eyes scanned him quickly.

"Are you a CSI?" she asked. Then she noticed Mac, still waiting on the other side of the doorway. "Oh - it's you," she gasped, with evident relief. "Have you seen Adam?"

Danny stared at her. The little pieces of the puzzle that was Adam's disgrace shuffled round in his head and began to join together...

"Fliss." Mac shook his head. "I sent him home."

She bit her lip and looked a little nervous.

"He didn't go," she said.

"He didn't _go?_"

Catching sight of Mac's sudden frown, Danny fought off a wild desire to laugh at Adam's unexpected boldness.

"He sent me a text. We were supposed to meet for lunch." Clearly, Fliss was torn between a wary sense that she was dropping Adam into even more trouble with his boss, and a desperate need to pass on her news. "That was forty minutes ago."

"Don't tell me he got lost," Danny chuckled, trying to lighten the mood.

"No," she replied. "He knows the way. He's been there twice already. Besides, I've been calling his cell phone. It rings and rings, but there's no answer." She held them both with her appealing gaze. "I don't understand it. He's completely disappeared..."

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**A/N: Uh-oh!**

**Thanks to Lily Moonlight for checking this chapter, and to everyone who continues to review, read, follow, favourite... You're all fantastic!**

**Hope you enjoyed this offering. By the way, there'll be another little challenge one-shot up tomorrow...**


	25. Chapter 25

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Five**

_**"Hence, get thee gone, and follow me no more!"**_

Fliss had replied to Adam's message straight away, suggesting that he meet her at the Rat's Nest. Grinning broadly by now, he set off down the stairs at an eager pace, gathering speed as he turned each corner until he was barely touching the steps at all. Reaching the bottom, he landed with such a jolt that it knocked the breath from his body in a sudden hiss of pain.

Oh yes. The bruise. He had almost forgotten.

As he paused to recover, sinking onto a low step until the ache and the whirl of dizziness receded, Adam couldn't help wondering about his recent wild behaviour. Fliss had worked a kind of magic upon him, it seemed. Adam the hero, who knocked out a bully, stood up to his boss, went flying, and got the girl...

Maybe this _was _a dream, after all.

Feeling better at last, he stood up gingerly and looked around him, trying to work out which was the safest way to go. If he stuck with the route that he knew, and went through the auditorium, he ran the risk of meeting Mac or Danny. Awkward. His oh-so-logical argument for staying at the theatre began to look a little thin when held up against the intense light of Mac's all-seeing gaze. As for Danny - he could guess exactly how that conversation was likely to go. The man was a menace; one of those infuriating people who always knew when you had something to hide, and who made it his personal mission to winkle it out of you. Shying away from the thought, Adam tried to imagine a more... discreet solution. Like avoiding them altogether.

So much for being heroic.

_I'll face them later,_ Adam told his sceptical inner voice. _Food first. _A couple of hot dogs, say, and an hour spent with Fliss would give him all the strength he needed to cope with the inquisition that was sure to come eventually. Satisfied, he hurried across the foyer towards a second, smaller door. Shaking the handle, he thought for a moment that it might be locked. Just as he was about to give up, however, it flew open with a bang and he was confronted by a sign that read: 'Private. Backstage this way.'

_That was a lucky guess,_ Adam thought, darting through and shutting it firmly behind him. The corridor was narrow; clearly little more than a shortcut. Drab plaster walls hemmed him in on either side, forcing him onwards through the gloom. Here and there, he noticed a door in the wall, which tickled his curiosity. But yesterday's encounter with Nathan had made him far too wary to even think about opening one and peeping inside. Instead, he jogged onwards, hoping to find himself back in familiar territory before too long.

Getting lost for a third time would be embarrassing. Surely his instincts couldn't be _that_ disastrous?

Minute followed weary minute. This was no short cut. Adam's spirits began to droop. The corridor seemed long and blank, and endless.

_Why do I do this to myself?_ he sighed.

All at once, in the distance, he heard a couple of loud voices, both male and both full of anger. Adam slowed to a halt and frowned to himself, full of indecision. Arguments made him nervous at the best of times and this one sounded bad. Tiptoeing backwards a couple of steps, he reached the nearest door and pushed it open. The room was empty; a practice room that held nothing more sinister than two old cane chairs, a metronome on a shelf, an upright piano... and layer upon layer of dust. Adam darted inside and closed the door, leaving only a small crack through which he could listen. Not that he meant to eavesdrop, exactly. But how else would he know when it was safe to carry on?

The argument rose and fell. Adam tried to recognise the voices. But they were muffled, and it was hard to distinguish one from the other. Now and then, a phrase or an angry word would burst out.

"...trusted you..."

"What am I going to...?"

"... said you understood..."

Adam opened the door a little wider. Something told him that the argument was more than two theatre folk exchanging artistic differences. This was about the murder. Forgetting that he was off the case - forgetting, even, about Fliss - he leaned his head out into the corridor and strained his ears to listen, hoping to catch... _What? _he wondered, full of excitement. _A killer?_

But already, the conflict was showing signs of coming to an end. Not a peaceful end, to judge by the tone, but a hopeless drawing apart, full of unresolved anger and painful silence.

Trapped in his hiding place, Adam caught the echo of a broken sob.

It was too much. The sound tore at him.

Risking everything, he stepped out of the practice room.

In the distance, a lone figure stood with his head bowed. His shoulders were heaving, and his face was full of anguish. Somewhere beyond him, a door slammed. The hard noise struck the young man like a blow.

Henry Kirk.

Adam stood in the corridor, feeling utterly helpless. Henry hadn't registered his presence, lost as he was in his own distress. Turning sharply, he started to move away.

It was the look on his face that made Adam choose to follow him.

Adam knew that look. Had lived with that emotion. The sense of desperation. The urgent need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. To find a quiet place and teach your soul to overcome the desolation.

If it could.

Somehow, Adam had always managed to claw his way back, after each and every beating. To gather his strength and keep it safe, deep down inside that part of him which would always remain simply 'Adam'.

But Henry... How strong was he?

There was only one choice here, Adam realised.

To leave him alone right now would be a mistake. Yet the corridor felt like the wrong place to confront him. Henry wasn't thinking rationally, and for Adam to pop up out of nowhere might just push him over the edge. Instead, he hung back like a shadow, moving in careful imitation of Henry's own footsteps in order to mask his own. The cell phone was still in his hands, so he switched it to silent mode and shoved it back in his pocket. Rational, careful actions. Inside his head, however, Adam's thoughts were racing.

Why was Henry arguing?

Who could have hurt him so much?

And - oh! What would Fliss think, when he failed to meet her?

No time for that...

They reached the end of the corridor but, instead of taking the doorway that led to the main backstage area, Henry slipped quietly to one side and fled down a dark flight of stairs that seemed to head into a black hole of absolute nothingness.

Adam's imagination screamed at him to retreat - but he clenched his fists and followed the boy, fighting hard against his encroaching fear.

This felt wrong. Very wrong.

When Henry disappeared into the shadows. Adam stumbled after him. The stairs were steep, and turned the corner once before reaching a lower level, shrouded in gloom. A single shaft of pale light spilled out from an open doorway.

Henry's destination.

The young man had disappeared by now. Inching forwards, Adam took a deep breath and peered into the room.

Bad idea.

"You," Henry cried, whirling round in shock. "What are _you_ doing here?" One hand moved in front of the other in a hopeless attempt to conceal what he was holding. "Adam! Did you follow me?"

Adam nodded dumbly, his blue eyes wide. He wanted to explain himself, but the words simply wouldn't come. Only panic, icy cold, that crept through his body as he stared at the object in Henry's hand.

It was a gun.


	26. Chapter 26

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Six**

_**"So should a murderer look; so dead, so grim."**_

Mac stared at Fliss.

"Disappeared? Are you sure he hasn't just left?"

She gazed back, full of doubt. "You know Adam better than me, I'll admit. Does that sound like the sort of thing he'd do?"

Her obvious concern was touching, and also rather contagious. Mac gave her words the consideration that they deserved. _Would_ Adam simply disappear? Without an apology, or a reason? He pictured the lab tech, always so eager to please, and so thoughtful - a quiet word of encouragement here, a bright smile there.

"Not at all," Mac told Fliss firmly. "I'm sorry. You're right, of course. Though I'm sure that, when we find him, there'll be a rational explanation." _Not to mention a frantic apology._ Mac smiled at the image. "Where have you looked?"

Fliss opened her mouth to reply, but before she could do so, they were interrupted by Peter Reynolds. He stood behind Mac with one hand clutching the doorframe for support. His knuckles were bone white, and his whole body was shaking but his painted face was a study in fierce resolve.

"Forgive me," he said. "Detective Taylor... I need to speak with you. Alone."

Mac caught the wild look in his eye and nodded at once. "Danny," he said. "Go with Fliss. Find Adam and bring him back here."

"Sure thing, boss." Danny gave Peter a puzzled glance before turning to Fliss. "Danny Messer," he said, as he stuck out his hand. She shook it warmly. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Fliss grinned. "Are you a friend of Adam?"

"Are you kiddin' me?" Danny gave a wicked laugh. "Fliss, right? The guy's a legend. There was this one time in the lab, okay... Adam spilled the cyanoacrelate - that's super glue to you - all over his workstation. When he bent down to pick up the bottle, he grabbed the desk for balance..." Smiling across at Mac, Danny finally saw the meaningful look that his boss was trying to send him. He let his little anecdote tail off into silence - just as Fliss gave a giggle of understanding. "Um. Well, there's plenty of time for that later. We'd better get going. Lead the way, Fliss..."

Feeling a sudden twinge of doubt about the wisdom of his decision to let Danny loose in the theatre with Adam's new girlfriend, Mac watched them set off down the corridor together.

Too late now.

He only hoped that Adam would forgive him...

Shaking his head in dismissal, he turned to face Peter.

"Shall we take this conversation somewhere more private?" he offered, gesturing into the dressing room.

They entered together; Mac steering Peter gently by the arm and setting him down on a nearby couch. Once the door was closed and they were alone, he sat down next to Peter and waited quietly for him to speak.

Several minutes passed. Watching Peter's face, Mac could chart the progress of his internal struggle.

When his voice returned at last, however, it was calm and perfectly under control.

"I'm sorry for lying to you, Detective Taylor," he said. "I want to confess now. I'm the one. It was me. I killed my wife."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Adam had been wrong many times in his life, and he didn't enjoy it - the feeling or the consequences. Right now, however, he wished with all his heart that this was one of those times.

"Henry," he managed to blurt out as his brain rebooted. "Why do you have a gun? That's insane..."

Not the wisest thing to say, on reflection, but nerves had always been Adam's downfall when it came to speaking. Either he talked too long and too fast, or he came up with random statements that were hopelessly inappropriate. Mac, and the rest of the guys at the lab, had always been tolerant. Well, fairly tolerant. Maybe they liked him enough to see beyond his embarrassing flaw.

This was a different situation.

Adam shivered.

Deep down, he already knew what Henry's unspoken answer would be.

Which led to another, far more important question. What in the _world_ was he going to do?

All his wonderful plans to be kind and brave fell away from him in tatters, as he continued to stare at Henry's hands, and the dreadful object that they clutched.

_I can't do this,_ Adam thought.

How do you stop a boy so lost in grief and pain that he wants to take his own life?

"Shut the door," Henry gasped. His body, normally lithe and graceful, was rigid with fear, making it hard to draw breath. Adam's unexpected appearance had shattered his plan, but he clung to the broken pieces all the same.

_Humour him,_ Adam decided. That was the way to go, for now. Until he found the right path into Henry's troubled mind.

Swallowing hard, he took a small step forward and held up his palms in a silent gesture of friendship.

"Don't do that!"

Henry waved the gun in his direction. It was all too obvious that he had never used one in his life before.

Adam was struck by a sudden, insightful thought. _I wonder where he got it._

And straight away, he knew.

For the first time since entering the room, Adam stopped to look - _really_ look - at his surroundings. Stretching back as far as the eye could see, he saw shelves and cabinets filled with wild and improbable items. A medieval crown outshone a moth-eaten trilby. Goblets went slumming in the company of pewter mugs. An old-fashioned typewriter lurked beside a pile of curling manuscripts, eyeing them greedily as though they were fodder for its shining rows of teeth.

_I'm in the prop room,_ Adam realised.

Could it be, then...?

Was Henry's gun just a prop?

A risky assumption. If he was wrong... If the gun was a real one, stashed here in this robber's cave of fakery... Adam closed his eyes. The result could be catastrophic. _Be careful, _he thought. For once in his life, he needed to choose his words with absolute conviction.

"Henry," he said. "Can we talk?"

"Talk?" The young man sighed. "I've had enough of 'talk'." The look on his face was that of a hunted animal who knows the end is near.

"You mean the argument." Adam kept his voice low, and his head down in a gesture of submission. He peered at Henry through his lashes; studying the way his body moved, the expressions that crossed his weary face, and the tenuous grip that he had on the gun.

"You heard that?" Unbending slightly, Henry leaned towards him. Adam's quiet, harmless manner seemed to be having a positive effect.

"Not really. Bits and pieces. It's just... I know how that feels. To be beaten down with words. And..." _Blows,_ he added to himself. But that was another story, and one that he hardly ever told. Adam paused.

"I started it. The argument."

"You did?"

Taking a chance, he inched a little closer. Henry didn't notice. He was absorbed by the earnest look in Adam's bright blue eyes, now raised once more and staring directly at him. Pleading. _Trust me..._

One more step. Now he was close enough to touch the boy.

"It's my fault," Henry murmured.

"I'm so sorry," Adam told him.

One hand snaked out from his side and reached for the gun.

But Henry had seen the deception cloud his gaze, a moment too soon for Adam's luck to hold.

Wounded beyond all measure, Henry clung to the weapon and shoved the other man away with every ounce of strength that his wiry body possessed.

Adam felt himself flying across the room. A shelf barred his way, and he slammed up against it, so hard that his head rocked back upon his neck and he fell to the ground in an startled, dizzy heap.

Even worse - the middle shelf had struck him right across the bruise left by Nathan's fist.

He would have howled in pain, but every ounce of breath was trapped in his body and couldn't get out.

He would have risen to his feet, but his legs refused to work.

Adam's world spun. Little black dots filled his vision.

He knew exactly what was coming next.

_Great timing, _he sighed, as the world went black.


	27. Chapter 27

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Seven**

_**"Fallen am I in dark uneven way."**_

Mac felt a bitter sense of disappointment. Despite Peter's evident weakness, he liked the man. Had he really been so wrong in his judgement?

"You killed your wife?" he echoed. "Tell me why."

Peter raised a weary hand and pulled the wig of dreadlocks from his head, revealing a stocking cap that covered his greying hair. All at once, he looked older and very tired.

"Rowena lied."

Somehow, Mac wasn't surprised by this statement. Deception had dogged their investigation from the start.

"About what?"

The actor gave a short, dark chuckle. "You're not married, are you, Detective? About everything. As did I, of course. You know that. We both had our secrets, large and small. But all through our marriage, right from the start, she lied to Henry. And that, I just couldn't forgive."

At last. The truth.

"What about him?"

"Well now." Peter gave a smirk that had nothing to do with humour. "Can't you guess...?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Slowly, Henry's face came into focus.

"What are you doing?" Adam muttered, blearily.

"I... sorry. You didn't look comfortable."

Henry drew back, and Adam struggled to sit up straight. A heavy rug was draped across his body, and a couple of dusty cushions lay nearby.

"You were... tucking me in?

"I couldn't just leave you there." Leaning back against a nearby cabinet, Henry stretched out his legs. The gun lay on his lap. "You looked so broken. Like a toy."

_A toy that you threw,_ Adam thought. His side felt worse than ever; more than a bruise by now. Had he gone and cracked a rib or something? "Henry, we should get out of here. Let's find my boss. Whatever the problem is, he can help you, okay? I promise..."

"No," Henry whispered. "I can't." He shook his head, and a single tear rolled down his cheek, etching a thin line through his chalk-white make-up. One hand moved to rest on the gun, as if to reassure himself of its presence.

Adam watched nervously. No Mac, then, or even Danny. This was all on him.

Time for the truth.

"The gun's a prop," he said. "Isn't it? Henry... I don't understand."

"Yes," the boy murmured. "It's a prop."

"But I thought..."

_I thought you wanted to kill yourself..._

The words were so awful that Adam couldn't bring himself to speak them. Henry raised his pale blue eyes. They were dead already.

"It's just as good," he said. "I know, okay? My... Rowena told me. There was this actor, years ago. A young man like me, starting out in his very first role. He was joking around, and he lifted a prop gun to his head. 'What do you think would happen,' he said, 'if I pulled the trigger..?'"

"He died." Adam's voice was full of dismay.

"He died." Henry nodded. "I've never forgotten that story. I was ten when it happened. Rowena knew him well, and it made her sad."

"Don't you think..." Adam paused, so frightened of making another bad mistake. He had broken faith with Henry when he tried to take the gun, and his false act lay between them, like an icy river, treacherous and hard to cross. "Don't you think she'd be sad right now? Your mom... Rowena, I mean? If she knew that you were planning to do the same? Please, Henry. Think about that."

"Think about _Rowena_?" Henry's voice rose in anger, and he lifted the gun with both hands. "That's _all_ I can think about. She won't go away! Not ever..." He slammed the butt against his temple, over and over again, as though he could knock the errant thought right out of his head with this mindless act of violence.

"Wait - stop! Please, stop..." begged Adam, who couldn't bear to see him in such distress. "I don't understand," he repeated. "Tell me, Henry. Please..." His only hope now was to make the boy talk.

And it seemed to work. Henry lowered his hand and the gun fell back into his lap.

"Rowena lied," he said to Adam. "She was my mother all along."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Leaning his chin on his hands, and his elbows on his knees, Peter Reynolds turned his gaze to the past. The tale belonged to Rowena, but both men could picture it all the same.

"When my wife was in high school," Peter said, "a new boy came to town - an older boy - and she fell passionately in love. He was handsome, and different, and vital. Dangerous. He filled her head with dreams, and told her that she was his angel. A beautiful thing, you'll say - but the boy was wild, and commitment was the last thing on his mind. He saw her. He wanted her. And, in the end, he took her." Peter frowned. "She was barely sixteen. Rowena fell pregnant - and her lover disappeared completely, like the villain that he was. Alone, and afraid of everyone's reaction, she ran away to the city, changing her name and her looks so that no one could find her. The baby was all that she kept. Henry, she named him, after the boy who had broken her heart. The boy she still loved deeply. Until the day she died," he added softly.

"In spite of her troubles, Rowena had charm on her side. She started to make her way in the theatre world, leaving Henry with neighbours, and kind new friends. The more successful she became, the more afraid she was that her past, if known, would ruin her chances. So she made up a story for the child about a wonderful, perfect mother, sadly doomed by illness, whose last dying wish had been for Rowena to bring him up as her very own. Before long, that story became the truth. I think that she almost came to believe it herself. The lie went on for nineteen years."

"Until someone found out," Mac guessed.

Peter nodded.

"One day, about a month ago, a reporter came to our house. I was downstairs, alone. He stood at my own front door and told me, quite frankly, about Rowena's past. He waited for my stunned reaction, then he tried to blackmail me. The man was a leech. A pig. I sent him away, and called Rowena at once, begging her to tell me that it wasn't true. To my horror, she burst into tears and pleaded with me to get the man back. To pay him whatever he asked for." Peter sat up straight and levelled his gaze at Mac. "For the first time in our marriage, I hated my wife. She wasn't the woman I fell in love with. Faced with a choice, she put public opinion before her son. Her _son_ - who didn't even know what he was to her."

Mac's mind was racing. Peter's account rang true. But there was more to this tale, and he searched for the heart of it.

"Did you tell him?"

"It wasn't my place." Peter shook his head. "And I doubt Rowena found the nerve. So, no. He's a pawn in all of this. An innocent."

And there it was. The lie. It was burned in the depths of Peter's eyes. He was truly an actor of incomparable skill, but he couldn't hide his pain - the pain of an honest man.

"I don't believe you," Mac said, full of sorrow. "I know what you're trying to do. And I'm sorry. I can't accept your confession. You didn't murder your wife. Henry murdered his mother."

"Prove it," Peter told him.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Henry." Adam stared at the young man with doubtful eyes. "I don't..." His breath caught in his throat. "Was it you? Did you...?"

"Kill Rowena?" Henry's voice was tight and bitter, quite unlike his usual, fluid tone. "Of course I did."

_Oh no..._

_Find the words,_ Adam told himself, full of desperation. Watching his face, the young man rolled to his knees and crawled nearer, still clutching the gun. Now they were side by side. Adam could sense the emotion that radiated outwards from Henry's body. It gripped him, and filled him with borrowed fear.

"You're sad," he ventured, at last. "And alone. Like no one else could possibly understand. That's how it feels - right?"

"What do you know?" the boy spat, but his face was almost eager.

"More than you think," Adam told him, fighting to keep his voice steady. "My father... he hurt me. Badly."

"Did you kill him?" The question was dreadful. Adam flinched.

"No. But I thought about it." He had never spoken those words aloud before, or even let them come together in his head. They belonged to the darkness, and he had left that behind long ago.

Unlike Henry.

The darkness had crept up on this boy unawares. Innocence had been his downfall.

"How did you do it?" Adam asked in an easy manner, as though they were simply having a conversation.

Warmed by this fragile acceptance, Henry answered straight away. Adam kept his face a study in gentle curiosity. No threat; no judgement. And no tricks this time.

"The play taught me how," he said. "But I didn't mean to hurt her. I just wanted her to feel what it was like. My whole life was an illusion, and it hurt so much when I found out the truth. I wanted Rowena to be scared, like me. I wanted to frighten her with illusions, in front of the people whose stupid opinions she cared so much about. I guessed that a drug would do it, but I've never touched anything like that in my life before. So I asked a friend. And he suggested belladonna. It seemed poetic." He shrugged. "Just like the play. A purple flower, that would change how she saw the world. But..."

"But you're a dunce at science," Adam said softly, recalling their first conversation. "You gave her too much?"

"I did. I _must _have done." He jerked, as a sob ripped his throat. "Oh, God..."

_Stay calm, _Adam told himself. _Change the subject. _"How did you find out? That she was your mother?"

"Wha...?" Henry's eyes were clouded by now, and vague. "I heard them arguing. Peter and Row.. and my _mother._ They didn't know that I heard. Peter only guessed afterwards. I never could keep a secret very well... Not from him, anyway. He's my best friend..."

Which explained the confrontation that had led them both to this place. "He told you to come clean," Adam guessed.

Henry nodded. "When I said no, he looked so lost. I couldn't stand it any more. I've destroyed them both. There's no one left..."

"No... wait!" Adam heard the desperate note in Henry's voice. It filled him with horror.

The young man raised the prop gun to his temple, and gave Adam one last, weary smile.

"Goodbye," he said. "I'm sorry I pushed you. And thank you for being my friend."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**A/N: A difficult chapter to write. So much emotion, and so many things to reveal. I need to thank Lily Moonlight, as always, for her valuable suggestions, and also those people who keep on reviewing. Your comments make me smile so much! I hope you enjoyed this update. More soon, I promise.**

**Now I'm off to hide, before you all come after me for adding the third cliffhanger in a row...**

**A small disclaimer, by the way. Henry's tale of the actor and the prop gun is real. I just altered the time scale a little.**


	28. Chapter 28

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Eight**

_**"This falls out better than I could devise."**_

"Hold on just a second." Danny's jaw was almost on the floor. "You're telling me that Adam - _our_ Adam - punched a guy in the face last night and knocked him out cold?"

"A big guy," Fliss said solemnly. "Mean and nasty. Full of rage."

After listening to several tales in which Danny had gleefully described some of Adam's most embarrassing moments, she had clearly decided that it was time to redress the balance. Danny felt chastened. And full of the utmost surprise.

Adam Ross, the jumpy lab rat: a knight in shining armour.

Who would have guessed?

And this girl of his - Danny liked her. She wasn't pretty, exactly, but she caught your imagination and made you want to look at her a second time. Something about her eyes, perhaps, or the curious tilt of her head . He couldn't put his finger on it - but it was quite refreshing. In a way, Fliss reminded him of Lindsay. She was someone that you could smile with. Someone comfortable.

Someone clever.

Neatly, and without being rude, she had just defended Adam to his own colleague, a man that she barely knew, turning both the conversation and Danny's point of view completely upside down.

"Well played, Fliss," he said. "No more stories. Let's just find the guy, so that I can congratulate him."

"What - for the knockout?"

"That - and other things." Danny grinned. Fliss saw his meaning straight away and blushed.

Which made him like her even more.

Fallling into friendly silence, they climbed the stairs together. Backstage, Ann Hart had mentioned seeing what she thought was Fliss's new guy up in the gods. It was the first real clue that they had found. No one else remembered him at all - not since he had left the Rat's Nest that morning.

_Where are you, buddy?_ Danny wondered. At first, the whole thing had seemed like a bit of a joke. Adam had probably fallen asleep somewhere, or got himself turned around. Easily done, in a maze like the Prestige Theatre. Danny knew that without Fliss, he, too, would be hopelessly lost.

Now, however, a vague sense of unease was starting to sneak up behind him, whispering doubts and dark suggestions into his ear.

What if Adam had fallen?

Or worse, fallen in with the killer?

Danny wouldn't put it past him; Adam's luck was fickle.

"Here we are," Fliss said, sounding far less breathless than she ought to. Wheezing, Danny joined her at the door to the gallery. She pushed it open and they stepped through, side by side.

"People sit up _here_? You kiddin' me?" As Fliss turned on the nearest light, Danny gazed down the aisle in disbelief. "Don't they get dizzy?"

"Not when they're sitting down," she laughed. "These are the cheaper seats. For people who love the plays, but can't afford to sit closer. Most nights, the gallery is full. And the loudest applause always comes from up here. I sit here myself," she added slyly. "The view is amazing. Come on - I'll show you."

That was a dare, if ever Danny heard one. Trying not to think too hard about the steepness, or the sudden drop at the end, he followed her down the stairs with jerky steps and a string of silent curses. Fliss sailed down like a debutante. She didn't even need to spread her arms.

_Yep,_ Danny thought. _Just like Lindsay._

_Heaven help us guys if those two ever get together..._

Leaning over the rail, they peered at the auditorium below.

The drop was a long one.

"No sign of Adam," Danny said, turning around as quickly as his manly pride would allow and scanning the seats that rose before them. "Up here or down there. All that climbing, and nothing to show for it."

"No, wait."

Fliss darted along the row. Something was sticking out from beneath the final seat at the other end. It was white, and thick, like a wad of paper. She snatched it up in triumph.

"Adam had this," she told Danny, hurrying back to show him. "He was here. We're on the right trail at last."

Danny took the bundle. Smoothing it out, he discovered that it was a dog-eared copy of the play. Someone had scribbled all over it. Two people, in fact, when he looked closer. Flicking past the creepy doodle on the front, he studied both styles of writing. One was instantly familiar.

"Yes," he agreed. "This is Adam's scrawl. I'd know it anywhere. It's even worse than mine. So - he was here. But not any more?"

Once again, they peered across the gallery, straining their eyes to see if they could spy the lab tech, curled up peacefully and lost in a world of accidental dreams. But the place was empty.

"Onwards, then." Danny sighed. "Where next?"

Fliss gave a thoughtful frown that wrinkled her nose.

"I have an idea," she said. "It's a little crazy. But if you think like Adam..."

"You can do that?" Danny asked her, smirking.

"You know what I mean." She glared at him, but there was no real anger in her eyes. He nodded.

"Think like Adam," he repeated. _First step into a scary world..._

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Time froze.

"Stop!"

It was Adam's voice that spoke, but not the Adam that was trembling with indecision. Pure instinct had taken control of his brain, and he listened, along with Henry, as this new and bold persona began to speak.

"Rowena lied to you. Don't lie to yourself, okay? You don't want to do this."

Henry still held the gun to his own head, but so far he hadn't pulled the trigger. _Convince me,_ his eyes begged. _Please..._

"You're not a killer, Henry. You made a mistake, that's all. I'll speak for you. I promise. Please - it's not worth your life."

As the bold voice died away, Adam's gentleness returned. He reached out with a careful hand - not out of sight but in full view of Henry's terrified gaze. "The gun," he whispered. "Give it to me, Henry."

He didn't really expect this simple ploy to work. It shocked him when Henry obeyed.

Keeping his movements slow and steady, Adam managed to hide his emotion as he placed the prop gun on a nearby shelf, out of Henry's reach.

"Our secret," he told the boy. "No one else's business. Wouldn't you say?"

"Y-yes."

The victory that he had gained was precious. The alternative... well, he didn't need to think about that any more. Adam smiled at Henry.

"Help me up?" he suggested.

Together, they rose from the dusty prop room floor. Adam's side was aching badly but he found that standing made him feel a whole lot better. He could even walk unaided, if he kept a surreptitious hand pressed up against his ribs.

"I'm so sorry," Henry muttered, watching him closely. He was subdued, and strangely obedient. Adam realised he had gained a peculiar hold on the boy. It made him feel very uneasy. The sooner they found Mac, the better.

"Actually, not your fault," he said lightly. "Nathan Howell punched me in the gut. Pre-existing condition, you might say."

"Nathan." Henry ducked his head. "He's the one. The 'friend' who gave me the... stuff. He swore it was harmless."

_Figures._ "Then it looks as though _his_ bad day's about to get a whole lot worse."

Henry looked up, startled by the comment.

"Come on," Adam said. "Let's get out of here and sort this out. Okay?"

Waiting for Henry's nod, he opened the door. They stepped into the corridor, and the darkness. Somehow, it felt less alarming now. Feeling his way to the stairs, Adam linked his arm in Henry's and steered him upwards. There was no resistance.

Once upstairs, he looked around for the door that would take them backstage. Just as he saw it, a voice called out to him through the gloom. His heart leapt when he heard it.

"Adam! There you are!"

It was Fliss. And behind her, as he turned to stare along the passageway - was that Danny?

Fliss and Danny.

Adam bit his lip.

No time for worrying now, though. Fliss was running towards him, full of relief. He let go of Henry and braced himself as she launched into his arms.

_Ow..._

"Hi," he mumbled, shyly, when he could finally catch his breath. She dropped back down to the floor and smiled at him, her dark eyes shining.

Danny sauntered up to greet him in a more sedate and knowing fashion.

"Hey, buddy. Where you been? We searched everywhere. Even Mac was worried."

_Oh no..._

"He was?" Adam glanced back at Henry. The boy was edging away, towards the nearest shadow. "Hey," he whispered softly. "Don't be afraid..."

"Where were you?" Fliss repeated.

_Please,_ said Henry's eyes. _You promised..._

Adam took a deep breath - and faced his friends with an innocent expression.

"I was talking to Henry, that's all," he said. "Where's Mac? There's something we need to tell him..."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

**A/N: Thanks to Lily Moonlight for checking over this chapter.**

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed - I loved your comments, and some of them made me laugh out loud! Thanks also to those who have followed this story or added it to their list of favourites.**

**Mahala - you are officially a genius. Henry's story was indeed a nod to the episode 'Fare Game' but also the tragic death of Jon-Erik Hexum.**


	29. Chapter 29

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Twenty Nine**

_**"Where I have seen them shiver and look pale,**_

_**Make periods in the midst of sentences,**_

_**Throttle their practised accent in their fears,**_

_**And in conclusion dumbly have broke off."**_

Adam sat in the break room, nursing a full cup of coffee that was slowly turning cold. On the opposite side of the table, Fliss was finding it hard to sit still, as she drank in her new surroundings.

"Unbelievable," she said. "Like a movie set or something. And this is really where you work?"

He nodded, suddenly shy, like a young boy taking his high school sweetheart home for the very first time. Yes - that was the feeling. Adam remembered it well; the rapid heartbeat and the fear of disapproval.

"It's not grand, like your theatre," he mumbled.

"It's amazing," she told him firmly, sliding her fingers across the table and cupping his hand with her own. "And your boss is great."

"Oh. I mean... yes, he is." It was Mac who had suggested that Fliss might enjoy a visit the lab, and Adam was still recovering from the surprise. The Prestige Theatre had closed its doors, since the show could no longer go on. Too many actors missing, and too few understudies. Dejected, the company was forced to admit defeat. Yasmin Anwar had fought their corner yesterday, but now she was gone, and no one else had the strength or the inclination to resist. Somehow, the heart had gone out of the whole endeavour. Tickets were being refunded already, and the play was in limbo until a new cast could be found.

Riding back to the lab in Danny's car, Adam had let Fliss sit in the front seat whilst he huddled behind her and stared at the back of her head. Just how many embarrassing stories had his friend had told her as they were roaming the theatre together? They certainly seemed to be getting along like a house on fire. To make matters worse, the pain in his side had begun to throb constantly, like a toothache. Still, Adam had chosen to ignore it. Mac was his immediate problem, not some ridiculous bruise.

Mac had taken Henry's stammered confession in his stride, and with far less surprise than Adam had expected. Now and then, he had glanced at the lab tech sharply, making him blush and duck his head. Clearly, Mac was mad because he hadn't left the theatre after being dismissed from the case. That was the only conclusion he could draw from his boss's behaviour. Standing off to the side, Fliss and Danny had listened in silence to Henry's tale. Behind them, on the couch, sat Peter Reynolds, his hair set free and his face devoid of make-up. He looked weary and dull; a man aged by sorrow. All that was left of Oberon's magic was the long green robe, which he continued to clutch around him like a refugee's blanket. Adam was filled with sorrow for Peter - but somehow, he pitied Henry even more.

That was two hours ago. Since then, Mac had called for a squad car, placing both Henry and Peter under arrest; one for causing the death of Rowena, and one for obstruction of justice. He had followed them down to the precinct himself, warning Adam to meet him back at the lab.

As Henry had left the theatre, he lifted his eyes and held Adam's gaze for a moment, seeming to gain strength from the man who had saved his life...

"Drink your coffee," Fliss advised, slipping off her seat and moving closer. "You look dreadful. It'll warm you up."

Adam jumped. For a moment there, he had forgotten where he was. A creeping numbness had begun to invade his body, slowly turning him to stone. He knew exactly what it was. He had felt it before. Shock was claiming him, now that the danger had passed and the world was trying to get back to normal.

_Normal..._

Was there really such a thing?

He sighed - but Fliss was there. Sensing his dark and lonely mood, she cuddled up and held him close, regardless of the stares that came their way. "Thanks," he murmured. "Please - don't leave me."

"Adam."

Looking up, he saw Mac standing in the doorway.

"With me. Now," his boss commanded.

Adam stood - a stiff and awkward exercise. Fliss rose too, but one look from Mac was enough to make her pause and retake her seat, as Adam left the room with a helpless, backwards glance in her direction.

Inside his head, a funeral dirge was playing.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Closing the office door behind them, Mac told Adam to take a seat. The lab tech looked exhausted, and more than a little shell-shocked for some reason.

"Um - could I stand?"

"If you want to." Mac rested casually on the edge of his desk. "Adam - why are you nervous?"

"What?" He looked startled. "Well... because I messed up, didn't I? I hid in the theatre when I should have gone home. I got myself lost and made you all go looking for me... Well, not _you_, but... Danny and Fliss, you know, and... What?" he said again, as Mac continued to stare at him quietly.

"Adam. I'm not angry with you. Don't you know that?"

"Sure; I guess. I mean... actually, no. You're not?" His bleak face lit up with a sudden hope and Mac had to smile. Really, the man was impossible.

"How did you do it?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. "What made Henry confess like that?"

Adam looked cagey. "I talked him into it?" he offered.

"Is that a question or an answer?"

"Oh. An answer. Definitely, boss. I talked him into it. He's not a bad person, okay," the lab tech added. "And he didn't mean to kill her. I really do believe that. Will they be very hard on him? I.. I promised to speak in his defence, if that'll help."

"He confessed to you," Mac said. "Of his own free will. I'm sure you can testify to that. So yes, it'll help. This was manslaughter, not cold-blooded murder."

Adam nodded. "Nathan Howell gave him the drug. Henry thought it was harmless - just a hallucinogenic."

"Ah yes; your friend Nathan." Mac's arms folded across his chest and he narrowed his eyes into a penetrating stare. Adam fell silent and studied his feet. One hand crept to his side and then fell away. "That's a person I'd very much like to get hold of right now."

"I hope you do." Adam winced, as he shifted on his feet uncomfortably.

"Take a seat," Mac insisted once again.

"I... no, boss. I'm fine."

As a master of deflection himself, Mac saw through the lie straight away. Enough dancing around the subject. Time to be blunt. It was all too clear that Adam was hiding something, and Mac had a shrewd idea what that might be.

"Then tell me what's the matter with your side."

The look on Adam's face was evidence enough that he had hit upon the truth. With an obedient shrug, he reached down and lifted his shirt.

Mac frowned. First Stella, now Adam.

"That's an ugly bruise. Why on earth would you keep it a secret? Tell me how you got it."

His words were firm, but only because he was filled with deep concern. Why should Adam feel reluctant to confide in him about a painful injury?

Once again, Mac's mind flew back to yesterday afternoon and he felt a twinge of shame.

"A fist. And... an accident. I got hit twice in the same place. Bad luck, that's all - you know me. I promise, boss; I'll go with Fliss and get it checked out as soon as I leave here."

"Do that. Please." Mac could tell that Adam was still hiding something. Something to do with the unknown time that he had spent with Henry, at a guess. His eyes were solemn, and pleading. _Don't ask me any more questions,_ they seemed to say. Mac had a choice - and he chose to trust the man. "Very well, then. You can go. And Adam...?"

"Yes, boss?" he said, as he lowered his shirt and headed for the door with obvious relief.

"I'm recalling your suspension. If the doctor clears you, I'll expect you back at work tomorrow. Understood?"

The look of joy on Adam's face showed that, yes - he truly understood.

"Good job," Mac said gruffly, and he meant it.

Adam hurried away as fast as his legs could carry him. Off to find Fliss, no doubt, Mac guessed. He was surprised to find that he envied them. Their connection seemed so fresh, and so... uncomplicated. An adventure, newly begun.

Walking quietly to his door, Mac stared down the hall. He could just make out a mass of curls bent low in concentration.

_Tonight..._ he thought, as he smiled at Stella's distant silhouette.

Enough dancing around the subject.

Time to be blunt.

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**A/N: This story keeps on getting longer. At least three more chapters to go, as I still have a few things to round up! Coming next - the bet... Who will end up in tights?**

**Thanks to Lily Moonlight for her editing advice.**

**And, of course, thanks to everyone who keeps on reviewing. You're amazing!**

**Hope you enjoyed the update.**


	30. Chapter 30

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**A/N: Just in case, I would like to issue an N.C. alert for this chapter, which may contain scenes of a coffee-spraying nature...**

**In other words: put down your drink before reading!**

**I'm just sayin'...**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Chapter Thirty**

_**"Every elf and fairy sprite**_

_**Hop as light as bird from briar,**_

_**And this ditty after me,**_

_**Sing, and dance it trippingly."**_

"I've been reading this play," Danny said, wandering into the Trace Lab and waving a rolled-up sheaf of paper.

Sheldon and Lindsay stared at him in surprise and he hastened to explain.

"Not the play itself." He spread the manuscript across the light table. The staples had been removed, and the pages were loose. "I've been reading the notes."

They leaned over his shoulder, as Danny began to lead them on a visual tour of the scribbles, shorthand marks and tiny doodles that filled the printed sheets, almost blotting out the play itself.

"This is Adam," he began, dismissing a thread of notes that looked more like a series of alien heiroglyphs than any known language. "As far as I can tell, he was making little comments on the play as it happened. You know, comings and goings, people he saw and what they were doing, that kinda thing."

"You can read that?" Sheldon was impressed.

"Adam showed me once. It's some kinda geek code that he made up in college. What can I say? I'm a quick study," Danny boasted.

"Okay, Mr. Humility. Who wrote the rest? And why is this important?" Lindsay asked him, folding her arms.

Danny scanned along the row of pages until he came to the one that he wanted. "See for yourself. This script belongs to Henry Kirk." He gestured back to the drawing on the front cover. "He must've loaned it to Adam at some point. Most of these other notes are about Puck's performance and motivation, okay? Just as you'd expect. But take a look at this, right next to the speech where Oberon describes the purple flower." His gloved finger stabbed down hard. Two words were scored beside the print in bold red ink.

"'Beautiful lady'," Lindsay read, slowly.

"Seems as though our friend Henry had a 'geek code' too. 'Beautiful lady' - belladonna," Sheldon offered, with a growing air of triumph. "This is the evidence we need. To go along with Henry's confession. He planned to drug his mother, and the doodle confirms it."

"Well now, I wouldn't say 'confirm' but it certainly backs up his story." Danny shrugged.

"As does the talcum powder," Lindsay put in, stepping back to the microscope. "Henry wears a skin-tight costume and boots in the play. The talc is definitely his. He uses it to reduce the friction when he's dressing up as Puck. Mac swabbed his hands for a sample, down at the precinct, and brought it back. It's a perfect match. Henry's trace, on Peter's prop - the flower _and_ the vial. Circumstantial, I know, but that's one more detail which should give his tale the ring of truth."

"Speaking of truth, I'd love to know how Adam did it," her husband grinned.

"Did what?"

"Got the kid to confess like that. Wish I'd been a fly on the wall. Can you imagine the look on Adam's face when Henry started spilling his guts and confessing to murder?"

Lindsay shook her head. "I don't suppose he had to say much. That poor boy must have been drowning in guilt. Adam simply opened the floodgates somehow. Killing his mother was the last thing on Henry's mind, according to Mac."

"Yes - and a good defence lawyer will latch on to that fact, I hope, when the case goes to trial," said Sheldon. "You know, I can't help thinking about what Herbert Stanley told me this morning. We all just assumed that the child in Rowena's new will was going to be Tariq Anwar. Strange, but not impossible. What if it wasn't? What if she meant to change a more important detail?"

"You think that she was going to claim Henry as her son? Put things right, after all this time?"

"Makes sense to me." Danny started to gather the script back into a messy bundle, just as Don Flack strolled into the room.

"Six o' clock," he told them cheerfully. "Time's up."

"Time for what?" Sheldon asked.

Husband and wife looked cagey.

"Oh - just a little bet we had going," Danny mumbled. Clearly, he wasn't feeling over-confident about his guess. Don rubbed his hands with glee. Sheldon leaned against the table and folded his arms, preparing to watch the show.

"What's the pay-off?" he enquired, with interest.

"Never you mind," Danny hissed.

Too late.

"See, these two were wondering just how come I know so much about A Midsummer Night's Dream," the detective told Sheldon.

"Fair question."

"Thanks for that. Their guesses were way off the mark, so I gave them one last chance to find the answer. Losers wear tights."

"Tights?" Sheldon's eyes grew wide.

"Full-on fairy costume, wings and all. Right here in the lab."

"And you're not worried?"

"Nope." Don gave a lazy grin; the cat that had the bowl of cream within its sight. "Okay, Messers - who'd like to go first and get the humiliation over with?"

"I will." Lindsay faced him, unafraid. "My theory is simple. I call it 'High School Musical'..."

Danny sniggered.

"I did some research," his wife continued, giving him a not-so-gentle shove. "Your school had an excellent drama department. They put on several plays a year - including Shakespeare. So. I'm guessing there was a girl..."

"Too right..." Danny mumbled.

"A _pretty_ girl," Lindsay continued, as though he had never spoken. "Star of the drama club, who reeled you in; the lovestruck quarterback, doomed to play fairies in front of the whole school, just to win her heart..."

"That's a beautiful story." Don's voice was mocking. "You callin' me Zac Efron?"

"I think she is," Sheldon prompted helpfully; earning a glare from his female colleague.

"Wrong. And wrong," the detective laughed. "So far off base, it's outta the park. This is real life, guys, not some all-singing, all-dancing Disney spectacular. I was a jock in high school - _never_ an actor. End of story." Raising one eyebrow, he gave her a glimpse of his charming smile. "Though I'll admit, there may have been a pretty girl or two..."

"Dammit." Lindsay frowned. "I was certain."

"Whilst I love the image," Danny said with feeling, "I'm kinda glad you lost. I really, _really_ want to see you in tights, babe... You too," he added, rounding on Don. "Guess that makes it my turn. And hey! There's a girl in my theory too."

"Shocker." Don's face gave nothing away.

"See, I think this tale has a more recent setting. A girlfriend, who turned out to be a big fan of all things poetical. Picture the scene." He spread his hands wide. "You're lyin' in bed, right..."

"Careful..."

"When she turns and says to you..." Here, Danny adopted a squeaky, girlish voice. "...Oh Donald, baby, I'm just wild about that William Shakespeare. His words make me tingle all over..."

"At which point, your heart sinks," Sheldon interrupted, joining in with relish.

"So, the very next day, you race to the bookstore and brush up on the Bard, hopin' to get... well, I'll leave you to fill in the rest. Ladies present, and all that." Danny winked at his wife.

"Oh, very delicate," Lindsay retorted.

Breathlessly, they waited. Even Sheldon was tense by now. The stakes were high, and the game was compelling.

Drooping his head, Don managed to fake disappointment for an impressive ten seconds. After that, he couldn't hide his triumph any longer. A radiant smile broke out across his face.

"I win," he said sweetly.

"I knew it," Danny groaned.

"Okay - then tell us the truth. Put us out of our misery. Please!" Lindsay used her very best wheedling tone; the one that always worked so well on her husband. Together, the three of them gazed at Don with puppy-dog eyes. He laughed.

"Sure. Why not? It's no secret..." Don spread his arms in a sly imitation of Danny. "Picture the scene... Twelve year old Donny is playin' stickball, all by himself, one summer's day. Now, he's no slouch, though I say so myself, and he gives the ball such a whack that it flies through the windowpane of a second floor apartment across the street."

"Vandal," Danny murmured.

"Sore loser," his friend countered. "Donny's a good boy, so he goes home, cracks open his precious jar of coins and piles them all into a bag. Then he hurries on over to find out whose window he smashed."

"Hey, wait - let me guess. A pretty girl?"

Don turned on Danny. "Look - d'you want me to tell you this story or not? Quit the running commentary, okay, and just let me get to the end." He folded his arms and glared at them all. "So there I was, inside the apartment. It took me a while to work out which door matched the broken window. After several false starts, I finally got the right one. When I knocked, this little old lady answered, all wrinkles and white hair, with sharp green eyes that could see right through you if she had a mind to. I'll never forget - she smelled of soap and lavender." Don cleared his throat. "Well, anyway... she looked kinda scared to see some strange kid standing there. I guess the broken window had shocked her too. So I owned up quickly and shoved the bag of money into her hand." His lips curled in a smile of fond remembrance. "She wouldn't take it. Asked me my name, and where my parents lived. I thought I was in for it then, when she found out my dad was a cop. Turns out I was wrong.

"She said I could pay for the damage with something far more precious than money. I was feelin' a little shifty by this time, wonderin' just what she meant. She told me her name was Hilda Armin. Used to be a high school teacher, before she retired. A mother too, with four kids and heaven only knows how many grandkids. And yet there she was, all alone, in a tiny apartment with only her books for company. Go figure...

"We were inside by now, and she fed me this cake - I'm tellin' you, it was the finest thing I ever tasted. A golden slice of heaven. 'Come and visit me,' she begged. 'Once a week - or twice if you can spare it. Cake for you, and company for me. Don't worry; I'll square it with your parents. I'm not some wicked witch who lures kids into her lair with sweets and goodies...'."

"Maybe not, but she sure found _your_ weakness quickly," Sheldon whispered under his breath.

"You accepted, of course." Lindsay smiled at Don. Somewhere underneath this flippant tale was the hidden truth of a kind-hearted boy who had taken pity on a lonely old woman. Cake had very little to do with it. Don was a good man; pure and simple.

"I did." His thoughts were far away by now. "I visited Mrs. Armin every single week for a whole year. She gave me cake and read me stories, poems, plays... A Midsummer Night's Dream was always her favourite. That woman opened my eyes to a different world. Until..."

"Until she died." Lindsay's voice was soft. "I understand. You win, Don. Fair and square. That's a very special memory."

"Thank you," Don said; and he meant it. Laying his hand on Lindsay's shoulder, he looked her straight in the eyes. Slowly, the wicked grin returned to his face.

Sharing time was over.

"Time to make a whole new special memory," he told them. "I figured my chances of winning were good, so I made a little pit stop on the way over. No excuses. Your costumes are in the car. I'll just go and get them, shall I..?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

So it was that when Mac passed the break room that evening with Stella by his side, he had to stop and look again at the unbelievable sight which had just caught his eyes, in a mad flash of colour and fly-away gauze.

Fairies and visions were haunting him today.

"They look kind of sweet," Stella whispered.

Mac stared through the glass. Was that Lindsay, and... Danny? His eyebrows shot up to his hairline in bewilderment. He watched the two of them waltzing slowly; Danny in pastel pink and Lindsay in lilac, with veins of green running down her legs. Tutus, tights and golden wings. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. And then he saw the expression on Lindsay's face, as she twirled round the room with her husband, arm in arm.

She was happy.

A feeling of warm relief spread outwards from his heart. For the first time since that dreadful night, he saw Lindsay; the _real_ Lindsay, free from worry - and laughing, _laughing_ with her husband and her friends.

Don Flack leaned on a nearby table, smiling that dopey grin of his and clapping his hands in time to their twirling steps. Sheldon, ever the smart one, was holding his cell phone out in front of him. Footage to keep - or to use for blackmail purposes? Mac shook his head and turned to Stella.

"Don't ask," she told him wisely. "Just enjoy it."

Sometimes, the moment was enough.

Shifting her bag on his shoulder, Mac laid a hand on her back and steered her along the corridor, away from the merry throng and into comfortable silence. She swung her crutches with practised ease. _So much for sitting down all day,_ he guessed, with a smile that said he knew her all too well.

"Time to go home," he told her, as the elevator doors slid open.

The cliche was irresistible.

"Your place or mine?" she said.

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**A/N: As always, I would like to thank you for your reassuring and highly entertaining reviews! I hope that this chapter was fun to read. I took note of all your requests on the subject of the bet. An overwhelming demand for Danny in tights!**

**Thanks, as well, to those people who have been reading through my other fics, and favouriting them. I've had a lot of alerts for that lately, and I'm so very happy that you are enjoying them all!**

**This story is almost over (two more chapters, I think), but there is another long fic in the pipeline, as well as two one-shots. I'm having too much fun! I can't stop for long...**

**(By the way - small point, but it's annoying me. I know that 'cliche' has an accent on the 'e', but wordpad won't do it, and that's all I've got right now. Sorry! Maybe you could imagine it's there... I'll fix it as soon as I can.)**


	31. Chapter 31

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Thirty One**

_**"Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms."**_

Stella had lived in her new apartment ever since the fire that destroyed her old one, but it could never be home - she could no longer bring herself to trust that illusion of safety and belonging. Still, it was part of her life; a warm and comfortable retreat. She knew every creaking floorboard, every stick of furniture and every small memento. Yet tonight, as she opened the door and let Mac in, it felt like a different world. Sharper, somehow, and closer; looming in on her with pressing urgency. _What are you doing?_ the walls said. _This is strange,_ the windows frowned.

"Are you all right?" Mac said with concern.

She laughed. "Medication. I think it's messing with my head. Either that, or I'm tired."

Disappointment registered on his face - just a flicker, and then it was gone. "Do you want me to leave?" he asked kindly.

"No! No..." The first word was sharp; a reaction. The second was softer, and more thoughtful.

Mac seemed relieved, which was a good sign, Stella decided. He wanted to be here.

With her...

It seemed so unreal. She laid her crutches against a nearby table and turned to face him. He smiled and waited, full of patience. _Your place,_ his eyes said. _Your move._

"Um... would you like a drink?" Her voice sounded thin and shaky. Why was she so nervous? This was Mac; _Mac, _who she'd known for years. They were best friends, for heaven's sake.

And that was the problem.

Yesterday, back in the car, emotion had pushed her to say the unthinkable. Now, in the silence and the calm, it was harder to break free of common sense and convention.

"Coffee would be nice," Mac said.

She nodded.

Did he feel the same? Gawky, like a schoolkid? Full of nerves? His eyes were on her all the time. It was wonderful, and terrible. It frightened her to death.

How could he be so calm?

Her face betrayed her, just as it always did. She knew that he could see her thoughts; every one.

"I'll get it," he told her, full of concern. "You should be sitting down."

"Oh - no." Quickly, she spun round and hopped towards the kitchen. Mac came up behind her, at a respectful distance. The air between them was buzzing. Stella felt prickles running up and down her spine.

She filled the kettle and turned it on. Nearby, a set of pretty coffee cups sat on the counter. Pansies and columbine. Her hand hovered over the top and then moved away to find a sturdier mug.

"I like flowers," Mac said with a grin.

She jumped. The hand that was still in the air jerked with her. Down went the cups, as if in slow motion. Stella watched them smash on her hard wooden floor in a mess of porcelain shards and broken petals.

"Oh!"

"That does it," Mac told her gently. No more words. Taking her arm with care, he eased her away from the scene of the accident and led her through to the couch. His touch was like a magic spell, releasing her from care. She went with him meekly. Sinking down in relief, she watched him as he returned to the kitchen and swept up the mess with neatness and precision. All of the shards were safely collected. No thorns left to harm the princess unexpectedly...

She smiled at the image. Where had that come from?

_Fairy tales and magic._ It was infectious.

Coming out of her reverie, she was surprised to find Mac standing right in front of her, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand.

"You found your way around the kitchen, then?" she managed to say at last, taking the drink with gratitude. It was warm in her hand, and comforting.

He sat down beside her.

_So close..._

Stella could barely breathe. Her hands were shaking and she placed her cup on a nearby table.

"Very wise," Mac said, as he did the same.

Reaching out, he laid his fingers across hers and began to caress them. As he did so, he began to speak. Stella listened. The flow of words was steady and full of enchantment.

"You haunted me today," he said. "I saw you everywhere. And I heard your name whenever people spoke to me." Closing his eyes, he gave a tiny smile. "Adam." He shook his head. "Adam, of all people, taught me the most important lesson."

"What was that?" she ventured, half-afraid of breaking the spell. His fingers moved up her arm and began to trace the bruises that still marred her skin. There was no pain. In fact, it was soothing. Stella's breath returned and she began to relax.

Mac's smile grew wider. He opened his eyes, and there it was as well, shining brightly. "Love is worth any number of risks. It's stronger than fear, and bolder than common sense. Don't think - just act. You won't regret it in the end..."

He leaned in.

Stella's breath disappeared from her body altogether.

_Now_ he was close - so much closer than she had ever seen him before. All the details of his face were hers to scrutinise, as she had done so many times in her imagination. Yet suddenly, she didn't care. His warm hand reached for the back of her neck. His eyes were dancing with laughter. And then...

And then their lips met.

It was perfect. The most perfect moment of her whole life. Daydreams could never aspire to such intensity. Stella lost all sense of place and time and self. Here now, with Mac, the world could stop for all she cared, and she would be happy.

At last, with a sigh of release, he pulled away and stared at her. His eyes were questing; never still, as they followed every subtle change in her expression. _Well?_ he seemed to say.

Her reply was equally silent.

She pulled him close.

_My turn, _she thought, as the world fell away once more.

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Later, they sat side by side, their fingers entwined and two full cups of coffee, stone cold on the table nearby.

"How long?" Stella asked.

Mac considered.

"Since the day when..." He paused, clearly afraid of hurting her. "Since Frankie Mala. When I saw what he had done to you... My heart was broken. You looked so fragile, and yet you were determined to be strong." Mac shrugged. "After that first shock of recognition, it came upon me gradually. After a while, I couldn't remember a day when I didn't care about you, Stella."

_That long?_

So much time... Why had they waited? Mac - no, Adam was right. Love wasn't safe. Common sense was the death of opportunity.

"How about you?" Mac asked her, in return. His eyes were bright. No shadows lurked there anymore. No secrets. Everything she ever wanted to know was hers for the asking; right here and now. He deserved the same consideration.

"Since the moment I met you," she grinned. "Why do you think we fight so much? You bring out the passion in me, Mac Taylor. And you're not afraid of it. I could love you for that alone. You've seen me at my worst, and your opinion of me never changed. You've told me when I've been wrong, but you've never made me feel a fool. You're a very remarkable man."

Her answer was surprising to him. Raising his eyebrows, he stared back at her. For a moment - or maybe even longer; she couldn't tell - they studied each other's faces, locking eyes in a vibrant, joyful gaze.

"Four years for you," Stella mused, at last. "Even longer for me. We got here in the end. Where do we go now?"

"You mean, where do _you_ go?" Mac squeezed her hand. "Forgive me, but I've been thinking about that, Stella. This decision of yours - it set us free. We were trapped in a cycle of useless - and sometimes dangerous - relationships. You had the courage to face that, and look beyond the same old horizon. I don't want to be the one who holds you back..."

"But..."

He squeezed again, gently cutting her off.

"Let me finish. I'm not telling you to go. Or even to stay. My point is this. We should be together, you and I. We know that now and I'm not one for letting go of anything. The decision is yours, Stella; yours entirely. I want to give you that freedom. Stay here or go. Spread your wings, if you need to. New Orleans is not so far away that we can't be together when we want. And in a few years, when I retire from the crime lab..." He shrugged, as the vision hung between them. "Or stay. And we'll give Danny and Lindsay a run for their money with our 'happy ever after'..."

Stella laughed. She couldn't help herself.

Curling her good leg underneath her on the couch, she leaned against his shoulder. It was comfortable; new and yet familiar.

Now, at last, she realised the truth. Wherever her feet, and her ambition took her, she had already found her home. Right here, in Mac Taylor's arms.

As she lingered on the edge of a drowsy sleep, her drifting mind recalled the letter that was still in her bag, all ready to sign.

With a peaceful sigh, she let it slip from her thoughts.

After all, the decision could wait until tomorrow.

Or maybe the next day...

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**A/N: In the end, this chapter which scared me so much was an absolute joy to write. I really hope that you like it too. I'm posting it early because I can't wait to find out. I thought very carefully about how to end this strand. Although it's not an end at all, of course. More of a beginning...**

**One more update to go. It should be up by Saturday evening at the latest - hopefully sooner.**

**Thank you to Lily Moonlight, an expert on Stella, who gave me the benefit of her editing skills once again. This chapter is most definitely for you. I've learned such a lot from your advice!**


	32. Chapter 32

**DEATH TAKES A BOW**

**Chapter Thirty Two**

_**"Fair lovers, you are fortunately met."**_

"Congratulations," the doctor said. "You'll live."

Adam grinned.

"Thanks, doc... ow!"

She looked up, having fastened off his bandage.

"Sorry. Really, Mr. Ross, that's quite some bruise. Should I even ask...?"

Time for a charming smile. Never tell the doctor any details - that was the golden rule. He lowered his shirt. "Um - no. It's not a very interesting story anyway. So, what's the damage?"

"Nothing broken. Your rib is cracked, but that should heal if you take care of it. Just don't get into any more fights. That _is_ a fist-print, isn't it?"

Adam's cheeks turned bright red.

"Thanks, doc," he mumbled again, as he slipped off the bed and headed quickly for the gap in the curtains.

Hospitals. Dangerous places.

Fliss was waiting outside, perched on a plastic chair. She had pulled a notebook from her bag and was scribbling at high speed.

"Whaddup?" Adam said softly.

"Oh - you're done." She smiled. "Everything okay?"

"I'm fine."

She stared at him more closely. "Very well," she said at last. Flipping the notebook closed, she put it away and stood up, stretching. Adam felt a rush of gratitude for her forbearance.

"Whatcha writin'?" he asked her, curiously.

"That? Well, I had this great idea when you were in there making nice with the pretty doctor lady..."

"Hey! She strapped me up, okay? That's all. Besides, she had cold hands..." he added in a plaintive voice.

"I thought she was wearing gloves?"

"Really, _really_ cold hands. Cold enough to pass through latex." Adam folded his arms - and winced. "Go on, then. What's this great idea?"

Fliss looked suddenly nervous. "A play," she said. "A murder mystery, in fact. Let's just say that you've inspired me..."

"_I_ have...?"

"You and your boss. It's been an exciting couple of days."

"You could say that," he muttered. Fliss took his hand.

"It wasn't all bad though, surely?" she whispered in his ear.

Her warm breath tickled his neck and made him giggle. Suddenly, he was very aware that they were not alone.

Standing in a waiting room filled with would-be patients starved of entertainment. Not really the ideal place to make out with your brand new girlfriend.

Tempting, though...

"Come on," he said. "Let's go."

Hand in hand, they headed towards the exit. As they did so, a loud commotion burst upon the scene. Through the double doors came a staggering trio. Two young men were escorting a third - and the third was extremely drunk.

Adam and Fliss ducked into a nearby alcove.

"Oh my goodness." Fliss's eyes were wide.

It was Nathan Howell.

Suppressing the urge to laugh out loud - glee was, after all, rather inappropriate for an emergency room - Adam peered round the corner at the pitiful sight. Clearly, the out-of-work actor had been trying to drown his sorrows. No surprise there. Even more clearly, his behaviour had not improved: somewhere along the way, he had managed to blacken his other eye. The cheek popped out beneath it in a stunning bruise that rivalled the one he had given to Adam that morning. More dramatic still was the mass of blood on his shirt front, running all the way down from his nose, which looked suspiciously crooked.

"Gerroff me!" he slurred, as he wrenched his arms away from the men who were propping him up. Equally drunk, but far less damaged, they stepped back and left him to flounder. One step... then another... and Nathan fell to the floor. A ripple of laughter chased around the waiting room. "Don' laugh... I'm famous..." the actor mumbled, raising his head and aiming a blurry scowl at the world in general.

But the 'world' was losing interest already. Sadly, there was nothing new in the sight of yet another drunken fool on a hospital floor. Nathan tried to clamber to his feet, and failed. No one rushed to help him. His escorts had disappeared already, in the general direction of the vending machines.

"Poor man," Fliss said - but even she hung back.

Adam reached for his phone. Scrolling through the images in his address book, he found the one that he needed and pressed his thumb down on the tiny, grinning face.

"Detective Flack?" he said sweetly. "This is Adam Ross. Um - you might want to come down to the ER at Mount Sinai. There's someone here that you've been looking for..."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Outside, the evening air was warm and the streets hummed with life. A siren wailed in the distance. Fliss slipped her arm through his. The feeling was... comfortable. Adam took a careful, happy breath.

"What shall we do?" he said.

Fliss grinned. "We could always take in a play..." she said, wickedly.

"Ha ha. I think I might have had enough drama for at least a week or two."

"Good point." She considered - and then gave a bright smile. "Hey - by any chance, do you like playing Guitar Hero?"

Deep down, Adam's heart gave a leap of joy.

Could this be her? The perfect girl?

"I might," he said, with admirable nonchalance...

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

_**"If we shadows have offended,**_

_**Think but this, and all is mended:**_

_**That you have but slumbered here**_

_**While these visions did appear."**_

_**THE END**_

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**A/N: Yes, the end! And I'm sad. This story was such fun to write. I hope you enjoyed it too. Thanks to everyone who reviewed, whether it was once or all the way through. I loved your comments and they kept me inspired.**

**Huge thanks to Lily Moonlight, who read through a number of chapters before I posted them, giving me some valuable tips and advice.**

**And thank you to Mr. William Shakespeare for the 'loan' of his play!**

**Adam Ross will return (of course)**

**in**

**"The Labyrinth"**

**Coming soon...**

**(And also the one-shot: "Lindsay's Revenge")**


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